


he's a killer queen, sunflower, guillotine

by hoye



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:41:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 140,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22365040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoye/pseuds/hoye
Summary: He has to be the weirdest Hufflepuff Harry’s ever seen.Scratch that, he’s the weirdest Hufflepuff Hogwarts has ever seen.(One thing everyone could agree on: NEVER call Edward Elric short.)
Comments: 1450
Kudos: 4199
Collections: Ashes' Library, Behold the Sacred Texts, Clever Crossovers & Fantastic Fusions, Collection of Creative Crossovers, Crossovers and Fusion Fics, Fics That Should Be Adored and Loved, Fics to forget reality, Great Harry Potter Crossovers, Long Fics to Binge, ScribeSmith's Fanfic Library, Shou's Hoard of Fics, Stories that really butter my bread, There are no words for this beauty, Works That Will Not Leave You Alone, an ode to you





	1. what do you know about edward elric?

**Author's Note:**

> title is a play on lyrics from "killer queen" by Her Majesty, Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was on a FMA fanfic binge and then i just needed more ed stuck at hogwarts. i'm a big fan of crossovers apparently.
> 
> also i'm a hufflepuff and i wanted this l o l

He has to be the weirdest Hufflepuff Harry’s ever seen.

Scratch that, he’s the weirdest Hufflepuff _Hogwarts_ has ever seen.

* * * * *

He is the first person Harry’s heard of transferring into Hogwarts, rather than enrolling in and attending from first year.

Hermione rattled off an incredibly short but detailed list of other transfers she had read about in _Hogwarts, A History_ during the Sorting last year when Dumbledore had introduced the young man that would be joining as a third year after previously being homeschooled. There had been almost as many whispered comments as when Harry’s name had been called two years earlier when the rest of the school had gotten a first look at the new kid.

An apathetic boy had sat in front of the hall as the Sorting Hat was lowered onto his head.

The hat had mumbled to the boy, who went from bored to scowling and furious in seconds. The Great Hall had watched as he adopted a disgusted expression that suggested he was arguing mentally with the hat, who seemed amused more than anything.

It was one of the longer Sortings Harry had seen and by far, the one with the most entertaining results.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The hat shouted. The house had begun to cheer, pleased to welcome newcomers as always, until the boy had yanked off the hat, clenched it tightly in his fist, and loudly threatened “to rearrange you into troll underwear if you ever pull that shit again!”

It was rare for the Great Hall to be silent when it was filled to the brim with students, but after his declaration, the only sound heard was the muttered foreign language that spilled from the boy’s mouth. The Hufflepuffs gave a weak round of applause as the boy stomped over to their table and dropped unhappily onto the bench.

“Maybe the hat’s starting to lose it,” Ron had whispered, “I’ve never heard of a Hufflepuff with an attitude problem.”

* * * * *

Attitude isn’t the right word to describe how temperamental the new kid is.

No one has seen him smile or laugh; his expression is either blank or twisted into a scowl.

He’s gruff on a good day, and downright murderous on a bad one, and his heavy footsteps are like warnings to other students to get out of the way as fast as possible, lest they suffer his frighteningly short temper. He shouts and yells and threatens without a second thought.

One time, he punched Malfoy in the face.

It was awesome.

* * * * *

He doesn’t fit in with his house at all.

People had speculated he had been sorted wrong from the get-go, due to “the Sorting Incident”.

Their suspicions were confirmed when on the first day of classes, he correctly answered each of Snape’s antagonistic and impossible questions in potions and performed a jaw-dropping display of charms knowledge in front of Flitwick when asked.

No one would have figured the new kid for a bookworm, but it seemed infinitely more likely that he was a Ravenclaw than a Hufflepuff, given his demeanor.

Every assignment he turned in received a perfect score, despite being “some of the worst penmanship I’ve ever had the displeasure of grading” (Severus Snape).

He spent every waking moment in the library and was the only student who had anything resembling a friendship with Madam Pince.

He answered any and all questions promptly and perfectly, regardless of subject matter or year level.

He had read more books than _Hermione._

He made her and all of the Ravenclaws want to tear their hair out.

The only class he didn’t excel in was transfiguration.

In fact, he didn’t even bother with it.

No one knew why, but during his first lesson with McGonagall, he had politely but firmly refused to participate before she could even tell the class the curriculum for the rest of term.

When she had inquired as to his reason for his inability to perform transfiguration, he looked at her calmly, said in his unidentified foreign tongue, “ _Equivalent exchange_ ,” and walked out of the classroom.

To this day, no one could figure out what language he spoke and no one knew what he had uttered before leaving McGonagall’s classroom.

(He had a standing appointment on Wednesday evenings to serve detentions with her for the rest of the year.)

Not only is he incredibly intelligent and relentlessly studious, the Hufflepuff is terrifically calculating. He knew exactly who and how to manipulate to get what he wanted: case-in-point, his not-quite-a-friendship friendship with Madam Pince.

He is also somehow the only person who managed to not incur the wrath of Madam Pomfrey when he would slip out of the infirmary earlier than allowed.

Somehow, it seemed like the boy ended up there almost as often as Harry himself, yet almost no one had ever seen him while he was in there – Madam Pomfrey always set up privacy curtains around the Hufflepuff’s bed in the corner.

The one time a fifth-year Gryffindor caught the Hufflepuff speaking to Madam Pomfrey in a low voice with his head ducked, they reported back that whatever he had said had left Madam Pomfrey looking pale and exhausted, before she allowed him to leave her infirmary far earlier than normal.

“He gets away with murder!” George had exclaimed then. “Have you seen him _sweet talk_ Madam Pince?! I swear she blushed!”

“And now Madam Pomfrey too!” Fred joined in. "What kind of sob-story did he come up with?!"

“How does he do it!” George shouted.

“We have got –,” Fred started.

“To learn from him!” George finished.

He is courageous, too – there was no denying that.

He took no shit from anyone and was quick to stand up for others without hesitation.

In Care of Magical Creatures, in the moment between Malfoy insulting Buckbeak and Buckbeak attacking Malfoy, the Hufflepuff had tackled him out of the way of harm, despite everyone knowing he despised the other boy. In the ten minutes it took for Hagrid to calm Buckbeak down, the Hufflepuff had defended and protected Malfoy at the cost of his own safety: he had been covered with several deep scratches and was bleeding profusely from his head.

And the first thing he had said after the whole ordeal was an irritated “you okay?” to a shocked Malfoy. After Malfoy had nodded dumbly, the Hufflepuff proceeded to tear into the Slytherin, yelling at the top of his voice, “GOOD, BECAUSE I’M ABOUT TO MURDER YOUR DUMB ASS!”

Everyone present for the entire fiasco couldn’t believe it. Who in their right mind would risk their life for Malfoy of all people?

* * * * *

He has almost no acquaintances from his own house, as his personality had frightened off the prospect of friends within the first week of school (not just among Hufflepuffs, but all of the Hogwarts houses). The one exception is Cedric Diggory, who is the only Hufflepuff who wasn’t afraid to approach his prickly housemate and start a conversation. But Diggory hardly counted as a friend.

It seemed his most frequent companions were Fred and George Weasley.

Most were alarmed upon discovering how fond the Weasley twins are of the new Hufflepuff. They had somehow decided that there were few Hogwarts students as interesting and unpredictable as the new kid. As such, they decided to relentlessly seek him out and pursue a friendship with him (regardless of how terrifying his temper could be and completely against his will, if the original shouting and insults accompanying their approach were to be taken seriously) and somehow, they succeeded: by Halloween, when the Hufflepuff wasn’t immersed in a book, he could be spotted in the company of Fred and George, as well as Lee Jordan on occasion.

When the Golden Trio had asked what the Hufflepuff had done to intrigue them, the twins had exchanged a look, smirked, and George replied with a shrug, “He’s pretty good with his hands.”

Fred chimed in: “I was more occupied with his mouth.”

Ron had turned a dark crimson up to his ears, while Hermione hid her face in her hands and Harry could do nothing more than gape at the redheads as they trotted away with a carefree wave of their hands.

Other than his bizarre relationship with the twins, the Hufflepuff also shared a friendship with Neville Longbottom that earned a lot of looks. At first, the third-year Gryffindors were worried that Neville was being bullied by the intimidating teenager, but those concerns were dispelled when a bemused Ron reported walking in on the pair having a heated conversation about herbology. Harry didn’t even know that Neville could get heated about anything, but apparently, Neville had _glared_ at the terrifying boy and _stabbed a finger at his chest_ over a discussion on the properties of deadly nightshade.

Harry and co. had wanted to question (namely, interrogate) Neville about his growing friendship with the Hufflepuff, but felt it was rude to do so when Neville was becoming more confident and sure of himself and less nervous under the Hufflepuff’s guidance. It certainly also helped that the Hufflepuff began pairing up with Neville during potions, which prevented Snape from stressing Neville out to the point of tears.

There was also Blaise Zabini, who got on rather well with the Hufflepuff. No one really knew when the two began associating with one another, but it made even Dumbledore raise an eyebrow. They were constantly bickering, but both Zabini and the Hufflepuff seemed to enjoy it. It was as if they were an old married couple that could only show affection through insults.

Of course, there were rumors about why a Hufflepuff was associating with a Slythern, and even more so when the Hufflepuff in question was most likely a Muggle-born, or at the very least Muggle-raised. There was many a snide comment suggesting the exact nature of the Hufflepuff’s relationship with Zabini, often coming from the mouth of Draco Malfoy, but those quickly fell out of circulation following the day the Hufflepuff had decked the boy.

Perhaps what was most telling about the Hufflepuff was the fiercely protective nature that he demonstrated in regard to one Luna Lovegood. Prior to his appearance at Hogwarts, the majority of the student body had agreed that Loony Lovegood was unrivaled in weirdness and many more took to antagonizing her in minor (and sometimes major) ways.

However, one morning in the Great Hall, roughly two weeks into the year and just prior to the mail coming in, the boy had stood up from his spot at the Hufflepuff table and stomped over to where Luna was avoiding bits of food being tossed at her hair. He had sat down next to her, glared at the girls who suddenly pretended they hadn’t been throwing bacon a few moments prior, and spat out: “Problem?”

From that day onward, Luna no longer lost her shoes and books and other knick-knacks, and she no longer ate meals alone, as the boy made himself permanently comfortable at the Ravenclaw table (and the Hufflepuffs breathed a sigh of relief).

* * * * *

Then there was the matter of his appearance.

He’s the only person who blatantly disregards the uniform. Sure, some students might not wear their robes properly or their ties might hang a tad too loose (or be absent altogether), but the Hufflepuff wears black _leather_ _pants_ tucked into thick-soled combat boots and he’s ditched the traditional white collared shirt and sweater for what looks like a high-necked black shirt underneath a heavy-duty black chore jacket. Despite being entirely covered, his unconventional Muggle outfit certainly did him favors with the student population, though, if their appreciative stares were anything to go off of.

(Harry’s not sure if the Hufflepuff even owns a tie or a set of robes – he’s never seen the other boy wear either and he’s watched him receive detention from every single professor at some point in time, even from those he doesn’t even have class with. Harry’s assuming the professors have given up, because the boy still wears leather and he no longer gets detention. At least, not for his attire.)

The Hufflepuff has straw-yellow hair, that fell to the middle of his back when he first arrived, but now, one year later, reaches his rather spectacular ass. His hair is always braided, but his face is framed by some loose strands, which often make it difficult to discern his expression.

The strangest part of his whole ensemble is the pair of perfectly white gloves that no one, not even his dorm mates, has seen him without. In the beginning, Fred and George spread a rumor that the Hufflepuff had been cursed so that anything and anyone he touched turned into gold. Only the first-years had believed it; everyone else had rolled their eyes at the twins’ antics and Hermione had grumbled about the lack of cultural exchange that occurred in wizarding education (King Midas, anyone?).

However, after he had knocked Malfoy unconscious with a left hook, rumors started amongst the Muggle-born students that every inch of his body was covered in gang tattoos and that his knuckles were so scarred from all of the beatings he had given in the past that he had no choice but to wear the gloves. Such rumors only grew worse when a Ravenclaw girl gossiped about the Hufflepuff’s habit of constantly flexing and clenching his right hand into a fist, usually under the table, and his dorm mates mentioned they’d never seen the boy show _any_ skin.

(With each new tidbit of information, there had been a considerable increase in the number of pureblooded students who had inquired as to what a “gang” exactly was.)

When Ron had whispered the outrageous rumors to Hermione and Harry with his eyes as wide as Galleons, Hermione had snorted so hard on her pumpkin juice that she choked and Harry had to thump her on the back before she could breathe again.

* * * * *

One thing everyone could agree on: NEVER call Edward Elric short.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it! :-)
> 
> my harry potter knowledge is REAL shaky, haven't read the books in a long time, so sorry in advance for any inaccuracies (i'm doing my best to look up information as i go)
> 
> anyways, this chapter was written as a set-up/prologue to more of ed's shenanigans at hogwarts!


	2. how did edward elric end up in a different reality? (one year ago)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It starts, as it will end, with the Truth.
> 
> * * * * *
> 
> (that's based on a line from Good Omens).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i changed the rating after writing this chapter because... swear words lol

Edward Elric doesn’t allow himself to think his life sucks, because even if everyone else thinks so, he might fall apart if he does.

He’s got too much at stake to let himself do that.

So, his life _doesn’t_ suck.

Not even after mom died, not even after the human transmutation that went wrong, not even after his pride had resulted in the loss of his brother’s body, not even after automail surgery, not even after selling himself out to become a State Alchemist at age twelve.

Not even after discovering what had become of Nina and Alexander a few hours earlier.

 _Although_ , he thinks bitterly, _it might suck a little bit right now._

He’s standing in front of that wretched Gate, the figureless body that haunts his sleepless nights waving his own arm at him in a mockery of a friendly gesture.

“This has to be another nightmare,” he reasons aloud. “I haven’t done anything to warrant seeing your ugly ass again.”

“My, my,” Truth responds, placing _Ed’s_ hand against where a chest should be, (where a heart should be), “That’s not very nice. The polite response is ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ Didn’t your _mother_ ever teach you any manners?”

Truth’s grin spreads impossibly wide. Their teeth, blunt and human, somehow seem more menacing than the bared canines of any predator.

Ed hisses at the pointed comment. “As if anyone would be pleased to see _you_.”

Truth fakes hurt again, their mouth turning into a pout. “It’s not a nightmare, you know. You’re seeing the real deal!”

“Even in my dreams you’re trying to fuck with me,” Ed snarls, fists clenched at his side. “I’d _never_ come back here, no matter what happened. I swore it.”

And god, hadn’t he wished, even prayed to the idea of a god that he had abandoned years before, that he could do something to help Nina, to undo the sickening transmutation that had robbed her of her dignity as a human being and turned her into nothing more than an experiment in the eyes of alchemists, who marveled at “its” ability to learn language.

He bites back the urge to vomit and cry at the same time.

“Who’s to say you had a choice in the matter?” Truth asks innocently and Ed pales considerably.

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO, YOU BASTARD?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to get upset,” Truth chides, as if Ed were a little kid throwing a tantrum over not being allowed to eat ice cream before dinner. “I haven’t done anything…”

Truth examines the fingers on their stolen hand, on Ed’s hand, and picks at a hangnail.

“Yet.”

Ed is already moving, his right arm pulled back, ready to use his fist to break the teeth of the entity’s perpetual grin. Everything happens in the span of two breaths.

Inhale: his left hand grabs Truth’s (his) shoulder and throws him to the ground, clambering over him.

Exhale: his automail arm swings down to hit where Truth’s face would be if they had one. The force of the blow has Truth’s head slamming to the side.

Inhale: both of his hands wrap around Truth’s neck.

Exhale: “If you think I’m going to let you do any more damage than you already have, you have another thing coming, you son of a bitch.”

Truth laughs then, loud and amused, and Ed tightens his hold around their neck.

“I applaud the effort, and the drama of it all, but you know better than I that this will do little to stop me, **little alchemist**.” They emphasize the name and Ed knows a threat when he sees (or hears) one.

“Don’t,” Ed says, voice laced with all of his hatred, his anger that never stops simmering under his skin.

“Don’t what, **little alchemist**? You don’t even know why I’ve brought you here and you’re already making demands. Seems you haven’t learned much in the last four years...”

“Stop it!” Ed shouts.

“Or what, **little alchemist**? There’s nothing you can do to me here that will matter in the end. Try to kill me? I’ll break every bone in your body and return your mangled corpse to good old Alphonse. I do wonder what his scream will sound like, I haven’t heard it in so long. I wonder if he’ll make an appearance here afterwards, he doesn’t have much left to offer, after all.”

There’s a look of twisted amusement at the thought.

“Stop,” Ed croaks. He lets go of the bastard’s neck as if burned, but he’s still on his knees on top of them. His left hand is shaking and he hopes that Truth hasn’t noticed, but he knows they have.

His throat is dry and his tongue feels foreign in his own mouth. He swallows, not that it helps.

“Leave Al out of this.”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Truth smiles sweetly. Ed feels like he’s swallowed an entire bottle of cough syrup. “We’re not here to have a discussion about Alphonse anyhow.”

The tension in Ed’s body eases a bit, and he shoves Truth away from him as he gets back up and puts some distance between them. He shoves his hands into his pockets to remind himself to show some restraint.

“Then get on with it. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary.”

Truth also stands up, brushing off their knees and hands as they do so. They tilt their head to the side and somehow Ed can feel their nonexistent eyes travel over his body; it makes his skin crawl.

“I’ve heard your prayers and have been entertaining the possibility of fulfilling your request.”

“What?” Ed says, exasperated. “I’d never fucking ask you for anything, let alone pray for it. Just tell me what you want, you cryptic asshole, I don’t have the energy for your riddles.”

“Earlier, do you remember? You begged for a solution to poor little Nina’s predicament.”

It’s like his blood freezes at the words. Ed shivers, feeling something cold trace down his spine.

His voice is hoarse. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“Not at all, not at all! How could I ignore the cries of a lost lamb from my flock,” Truth says, faking concern. “It’s not every day I hear a prayer from one who has wandered away for so long.”

“You heard that. You heard my pray- my thoughts?”

“Of course,” Truth practically purrs. “And who am I to deny a prodigal son, returned home at last?”

“You’re not God,” Ed says immediately, but the words are hollow.

Truth shrugs. “Gods and the religions devoted to them are created through the power of human imagination. What you think you know of a god, or God with a capital G, or any omnipotent being, doesn’t demand that such beings are actually like that. It’s simply their belief in them that deludes humans into thinking so.”

Truth watches him and says in an admiring voice: “Did you know that there is nothing quite as resilient, yet fragile, as faith?”

They laugh afterwards, a little too loud, a little too hysterical.

Ed’s mouth opens and closes several times as he tries to respond to this world-changing revelation. “You have to be fucking with me again. You’re telling me, you, you sick messed-up fuck, whatever you are, are, are _the_ God that, that those people who go to church worship and pray to? That supposedly _benevolent and loving God_ is you?”

Ed drops down to sit on the endless whiteness that surrounds them and scrubs his face with his left hand. “My mother used to pray every night, and, and, and once a week, she’d drag me and Al to that little chapel in town to attend service. She said that God is always listening, that They _cared_ even if no one else did. Said that God is love and all that crap. I thought the whole thing was bullshit, especially after – you know.” Ed gestures at the space around them, at the Gate, at himself. “Because what kind of a God lets any of this happen. Where is this, this, where is this _love_ that people talk about when they talk about God.”

He falls silent for a while and Truth doesn’t respond. When he speaks again, it’s resigned. “To think you were the fucking bastard in charge all along.”

“I’m not exactly the same as the gods you humans have made up,” Truth speaks up now. “In that I’m not responsible for most of the shenanigans that mankind gets up to. I don’t _let_ anything happen. Sure, I know what’s going on and I see everything past, present, and future, but war, weapons, murder, etc., that’s all on you and the rest of humanity.”

Taking in the alchemist’s glower, Truth continues in a matter-of-fact tone. “Why, I couldn’t have made any of that up if I tried! Everything horrific that’s come into existence is a direct result of the freedom to choose. Every awful decision a human being has ever made has only continued to perpetuate the perversion of the ultimate Truth: one is all, all is one. The way humans treat each other, so cruel, so self-serving – it’s baffling how much the ‘one’ has come to dominate the ‘all’ in their eyes. Suffering, it would seem, is a punishment self-inflicted and well-deserved.” If Truth had a face, their eyebrow would be raised.

Ed shuts up at that and thinks about his own choices.

His thoughts go immediately to his attempted resurrection of his mother.

He deliberately chose to ignore Teacher’s warning and commit the ultimate trespass. And what had that done, other than throw his entire life into turmoil? Wasn’t that the root of not only his suffering, but his brother’s? Al’s current state, his lack of limbs, his job as the military’s bitch…

 _My life doesn’t suck, my life doesn’t suck_ , he repeats the mantra in an attempt to keep himself together. _My life doesn’t suck, my life… fucking sucks balls and it’s my own god-damn fault._

“Why did you tell me this? You want me to suffer? Is this the equivalent exchange happening here, I receive knowledge I didn’t even ask for and am punished in exchange?” Ed tries to say it angrily, but it just comes out sounding miserable. He drops his head to stare at his legs spread out in front of him and says quietly, “There are good people in the world. People who genuinely care just as much about the ‘all’ as they do the ‘one’. They don’t deserve to suffer, to be punished, especially not at the hands of a god like you.”

“I assure you, I am not going out of my way to antagonize the so-called ‘good people’ of the world.” Truth uses air quotes here. “I am simply informing you that I am _not_ the god that people would like me to be. Kind, caring, _loving_ , ha!” Truth scoffs. “Those are merely the attributes people would like me to have, because they are inherently selfish. They want me to be kind, to be caring, to be loving, because it would mean that they could pretend they are not self-centered for constantly asking, begging for things from a higher power.”

“Why’d you bother with my pray- request then?” Ed snaps. He refuses to think of it as a prayer, not if it’s being heard by this fucker.

“We certainly have gotten off-track from our original discussion, due to your preoccupation with my supposed role, shall we call it, in the universe. If you’re quite ready to move on, I’m happy to inform you of why you’ve been brought here.”

The Fullmetal Alchemist fumes silently. “Get on with it,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Charming, aren’t you?” Truth snickers.

“Shut the fuck up, bastard!”

“Alright, alright. Like I said before, I listened to your rather desperate prayer a few hours ago regarding one Nina Tucker.” Truth puts a finger from Ed’s stolen hand against their chin, as if in thought. “And I’ve made an executive decision to answer it.” A pause for dramatic effect. “I will allow you to transmute Nina Tucker back into her original form.”

Silence fills the empty expanse. Ed widens his eyes, stunned. Then his brow furrows, and the corners of his mouth turn down into a grimace.

“What’s the price?”

Truth lets out a sound of delight. “Perhaps you have learned a thing or two in the last four years!”

“What. Is. The. Price.”

“Weeell, I have a little predicament of my own that I’d like you to fix in return.”

Ed narrows his eyes. “What kind of predicament?”

“I’ll let you in on another secret: I’m not just the higher power in charge of your reality, I’m the higher power in charge of _all of them_ ,” Truth smirks.

“What, what the hell are you saying?!” Ed splutters.

Truth spread their arms wide and throws their head back. “You’re not alone, Edward Elric. Your universe is not alone! Every conceivable, alternate reality, every parallel universe – you name it – exists. Every single one converges at a single point, and that point is _me_.”

Ed is at a loss for words and Truth takes advantage of it to continue.

“Anyhow, one of these particular realities is posing a problem to the natural order of things.” For the first time, Truth frowns; that gets Ed’s attention. “There is a certain individual, who is attempting to… cheat me with their actions.”

Ed crinkles his nose in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“Perhaps I should explain. In this particular reality, unlike your own, there is only one Gate and not everyone is allowed access to the abilities afforded by it. Those who are capable of using the Gate are not aware of its existence. However, the shared Gate for these particular individuals is always open –“

“What the fuck!” Ed jolts up from where he had been sitting.

“– a bit. Only a fraction, but it’s enough to give them access to an incredible range of abilities that function quite differently from the alchemy of your reality.”

“What’s the fee, then? If the door is always open, the toll must be fucking insane!”

Truth starts to grin again. “That’s the catch. Each member of that entire society pays for their knowledge after the fact. Namely, once they die.”

All of the blood drains from Ed’s face. “What happens to them when they die?”

“Their souls are transmuted into the Gate.”

Truth watches Ed turn unnaturally white with glee. “The singular Gate in that reality is composed of millions of souls, who feel themselves disintegrate into nothing as others continue to access the Gate. Marvelous, isn’t it?”

Ed’s on his hands and knees, emptying the contents of his stomach as Truth howls with laughter. Once there’s nothing left to vomit, he’s still on all fours, dry-heaving.

“That’s fucking sick,” Ed manages to say at last. “You’re fucking sick.”

“One is all, all is one,” Truth replies, before looking at him with a smirk. “If you think that’s sick, you’d be loath to find out what other things go on in this great Unknown.”

They laugh again and Ed shivers from where he is on the ground.

“I refuse to have anything to do with this absolute fucking nightmare of a reality, if it even exists. I fucking won’t do anything for you no matter what you offer me, if it involves a Gate _made of human souls_ , bastard!”

“Oh, don’t be such a goody-goody. It’s not like it’s painful,” Truth says, pouting. “They certainly feel it happening, but if anything, it feels like forgetting. It’s like…” They try to come up with an apt analogy. “It’s like getting on a train, and the further you go, the less you remember, until eventually, your soul ceases to exist. Easier than falling asleep.”

“I don’t care! You’re telling me that these people use a Gate that is made from the souls of other people like them and they don’t even know the price of the knowledge they have access to!”

“Do they need to know the price? They’re dead when their souls are repurposed, after all. They never even find out about the Gate; it could simply be thought of as their version of the afterlife. What would you rather, that they find out about the Gate after performing a crime against nature, like, let’s say, human transmutation? Or that they pay the fee upfront, like you? Like Alphonse? Would that be better? You would prefer these people be subjected to pain during their lifetimes for the sake of their abilities, which _is_ the foundation of their secret society, rather than entering a painless circle of life upon dying?”

Ed stares at his hands.

Would it be better? These people may not know what they’re getting into with the Gate, but if Truth is, well, telling the truth, at least their toll is painless. And if they really are dependent on the Gate’s powers, it would be horrific for every single person to have to experience what Ed and Al have to gain such abilities.

“No,” he admits quietly. “That wouldn’t be better.”

“Precisely my point. It’s equivalent exchange in the end. And while you may be acting like a petulant child now, don’t forget,” Truth reminds him, “This little favor would be for Nina’s sake.”

He squeezes his right hand into a fist, before taking a deep breath and letting it splay out on the ground in front of him. He pushes himself up and stands on his shaking legs.

“You didn’t even explain what the favor would be.”

“You’re right! We got a little distracted again, didn’t we?” Truth talks to him like he’s a child and he despises them for it.

“As I said before, there is a certain individual who is attempting to cheat me. He is doing so unknowingly, because he is trying to cheat death and he isn’t aware of what the afterlife entails, but he is cheating me nonetheless.”

Truth runs their tongue over their teeth. “This little favor would require you to ensure that this individual ends up where he belongs.”

Ed’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re asking me to kill someone for you?”

“It’s exactly as I said: make certain that this individual ends up where he needs to be, and I will allow you to return Nina Tucker to her original state.”

“And you would consider this to be an equivalent exchange somehow, no catch?”

“I mean, there’s a bit of a catch.”

“I fucking knew it, it was too good to be true, you –”

Truth cuts him off. “I am assuming you don’t want to return to your reality years after you’ve left, yes?”

“Of course not! I can’t just up and leave Al, I haven’t even gotten his body back!”

They snap and point at him. “And there’s the catch. It’s a matter of time! If you want me to return you to this exact moment, exactly as you are, I’ll need a little more than just one soul.”

“I won’t kill innocents for you, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“No, no, no, this second part won’t involve any killing at all. You see, there are three objects I need you to retrieve for me.”

Truth draws a line on the ground. “The Elder Wand.”

They draw a circle on top of it. “The Resurrection Stone.”

And finally, a triangle circumscribing the entire thing. “The Invisibility Cloak.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘wand’?”

“Yes, wand! Oh, did I forget to mention that the people who have access to the Gate’s abilities refer to said abilities as magic?” They say it innocently.

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I did say they had abilities quite different from those afforded to you by alchemy.”

“Yeah, I got that, I just can’t believe you _forgot_ to mention that they call their alchemy magic!”

“Technically? It’s not alchemy, because it doesn’t follow equivalent exchange the way alchemy does.”

“How can that be possible?! If they’re using a Gate, they have to use equivalent exchange.”

“Because of the source. The souls that create the Gate compensate for any amount that exceeds what would be considered equivalent.”

Ed presses a hand against his mouth and gags a little as he thinks about that particular tidbit of information. He isn’t about to fight Truth over the status quo of another reality, but even while knowing the utilization of human souls isn’t painful for the souls in question, the “circle of life”, as Truth called it, unsettles him deeply.

But that brings up another point: “Wait. Then how the hell will I get anything done against people who can use magic that doesn’t follow equivalent exchange!” Ed yells. “You _are_ setting me up, aren’t you?”

“Don’t worry about that, I have actually thought everything out, you know.”

“Then start talking,” Ed snaps.

“As I was trying to say before I was so rudely interrupted, the three items I described to you are ancient magic-made artifacts that were intended to give a person power over death, and in that sense, power over _me_. The wizards say that whoever possesses all of the Hallows will become Master of Death and I can’t have that, can I?”

“You sure fucking can’t,” Ed mutters.

“So, return to me the Hallows, and I will return you without consequences to the moment you wake, the day after you found out what has happened to the Tucker girl. Give me the soul of Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I will allow you to undo her transmutation.”

A pause and then a grin.

“And I’m willing to grant you access to a slightly open Gate as well.”

“Why the fuck would you do that?” Ed asked suspiciously. “What do you want in return?”

“I’m actually not asking anything more in return. It’s already an equivalent exchange.”

“How?”

“I’m sending you away for an unspecified amount of time to complete a task for me, separated from your family and friends and every trivial human thing you care about, unable to make any progress in your endeavors to get your and your brother’s bodies back,” Truth shrugs. “I think it’s only equivalent I provide you the means to level the playing field.”

“When you put it like that, I feel like I’m definitely giving more than I’m getting,” Ed says grouchily, crossing his arms and glaring at Truth.

“Come now, when I say level the playing field, I really mean _level_ the playing field. You’ll be receiving quite a bit of my help in this _brave, new world_.”

“What kind of help?” He’s skeptical, but if there is a possibility to help Nina without violating any natural and alchemical laws and without any repercussions, he’d jump at the chance to do so, though he doesn’t want to say that to Truth. Although, it probably doesn’t matter because Ed is an open book no matter how much he tries.

“Well, well, well, isn’t someone a little eager,” Truth says, to which Ed grits his teeth. They smirk at the sight and continue.

“I’d be providing you with a seamless introduction into the wizarding world, so that your sudden existence doesn’t raise any questions and you aren’t hauled off for questioning. As I said, I’m even willing to give you the ability to perform magic.” Truth wiggles their fingers and Ed drags his hand over his face at the sight of the jazz hands. “I’ll give you a wand, appropriate supplies including currency, and some crucial information regarding any and all necessary everyday knowledge, Riddle’s current state, and the location of the Hallows. Oh! I’ll also be providing you with fluency in the local language – Amestris doesn’t exist over there, and neither does its language.”

They count off just how many things they’d be providing as they mention them, using their stolen fingers to do so.

 _Well, isn’t that just fucking peachy_ , Ed thinks to himself. _Amestris doesn’t even exist in this insane world where there are “wizards” and “wands” and “magic”…_

He scowls. “It sounds like you already know how you want this to go down, so you’re just looking for some loser to do your dirty work.”

“That’s exactly right. And would you look at that, I’ve found my loser!”

Ed restrains himself from lashing out and opts for flipping Truth off instead.

“Who the fuck said I’m even agreeing to this at all, asshole?”

“You are, aren’t you?”

Truth and Ed are now seated in front of the Gate. Truth has Ed’s arm propped up on their knee, Ed’s leg bent in front of him. Ed sits cross-legged across from them, flesh arm resting on his automail leg and automail fist pressed against the ground. He runs his real hand through his hair.

“I’m considering it,” he admits reluctantly.

Truth claps their hands together with fake excitement. “I knew you would.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be your bitch, though – I do things _my_ fucking way or I don’t do them at all.”

There’s a smile that would have been considered genuine on any other person.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

* * * * *

Ed wasn’t sure how long he had spent arguing and negotiating the details of Truth’s arrangement after that, but he had counted at least seven times he had to stop himself from trying to strangle the smug asshole, so he’s guessing it’s been at least two to three hours.

It was a necessary evil: he wanted to be absolutely certain that Truth hadn’t included any loopholes or underhanded means of fucking him over.

“Does anyone know where I am right now?”

“The moment you were brought here is also the moment to which you will return. No one will know you’ve been away.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t agree to do this?”

“Nothing really. It just means you will wake up the next morning and live every day of your life knowing that little Nina Tucker will endure and suffer as a chimera even though you had the ability to save her from such a fate, **little alchemist**.”

(That was the fourth time Ed almost lost it.)

“If I’m in a world with a different Gate set-up, will I still be able to use alchemy?”

“Yes, your particular Gate will be fully capable of functioning as it originally was intended to, as well as enable you to use magic, once open. Fun fact: the witches and wizards of this world also have alchemy, but it’s an outdated magic.”

“What happens if I don’t get everything done? Like I get you this Riddle guy’s soul, but I only find one of these three hollow things.”

“ _Hallows_. And it’s simple: you don’t accomplish my tasks, you don’t come back. You’ll be stuck there until you die. And should you try meet me in this scenario through a violation of alchemy, I’ll be taking much more than a limb.”

“Last question: what if I die in this alternate reality?” he had asked.

“Your soul will be absorbed by the singular Gate in that reality,” Truth said plainly. “And you’d cease to exist in this one. Memories of you and proof of your existence will fade and the fabric of the universe will weave itself over the holes left behind.”

He gulped. “Would Al…,” he trailed off, afraid to say it aloud.

“Alphonse would’ve never been someone’s younger brother. He’d think he were an only child.”

Ed could feel the start of a migraine then, which was completely aggravated by the pure whiteness of his surroundings. He had pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and did his best to think rationally.

This had the potential to be a disaster. Great potential, in fact. If he failed, everyone and everything he vowed to protect wouldn’t know he had existed and all of the oaths he’d sworn and the promises he’d made would mean nothing.

 _It’s selfish_ , he thinks. _I’m selfish. They wouldn’t know what happened, they wouldn’t know who I was. It would be painless for them. But it would_ kill _me._

But he thinks of Truth’s provocation, of Nina transformed, robbed of her freedom to choose. Could he really live with himself if he foregoes the opportunity to save her from a lifetime of misery?

Edward Elric is intelligent, he is cunning and brave. But at the very heart of his being, Edward Elric is loyal to a fault. He is fiercely protective and cares so much it hurts him worse than any wound he’s ever received. And he already knows, sitting in front of Truth, that if he has a chance to fix what has been done to an innocent little girl, he’ll take it. No matter what it costs him in return.

He’s been mumbling the periodic table of elements in an effort to soothe himself once he came to this realization. He reaches Indium, atomic number 49, atomic mass 114.82 amu, before Truth jolts him from his thoughts.

“So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

Truth is all smiles and Ed can tell that they already know he’ll do it. Maybe they even knew before he himself realized it.

“It’s a deal,” he says quietly. He’s resolved, but he’s not happy about it.

Every inch of Truth’s non-being radiates a manic exuberance at his words. They stride forward to where Ed’s still sitting and extend their right hand, Ed’s right hand.

He’s forced to touch it with his automail.

(He usually only ever offers his left hand when he’s been in this situation.)

He hates that everything Truth does is calculated, controlled, and intended to make him deeply uncomfortably, to ensure he remember his sins. (As if he’s ever forgotten.)

In that moment, he thinks of his mother, who prayed to this entity and named him God, who told him God forgives and God loves.

 _If this is forgiveness, if this is love,_ Ed wonders as Truth pulls him up so he’s standing, his automail port throbbing without reason. _Ju_ _st how cruel is hatred?_

They shake hands.

And then he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, this chapter is a lot more serious than the first one, but i did want to create some background for why ed ends up at hogwarts and what he's trying to accomplish there - hope it was still entertaining!
> 
> i tried to make my logic as clear as possible, but it got real complicated real fast and i started to struggle with my own reasoning about what could be considered equivalent. if i'm remembering correctly, ed doesn't know how philosopher's stones are made at this point, but that is essentially how the singular Gate in the hp universe is functioning. the deal might not be 100% equivalent, but i tried haha
> 
> i put (one year ago) in the chapter title because i'm trying to have the "present" in the story be fourth year. based on current plans, the fourth chapter will be where the story actually begins in the story's "present"
> 
> i'm trying to find the right balance between funny and serious and also figure out what i'm trying to do with the all-over-the-place timing of the story l o l so bear with me :-)


	3. edward elric and the prisoner of hogwarts (it's him) (one year ago)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "he doesn't even go here!"
> 
> now he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _italics_ = thinking  
> "plain text" = speaking in English  
> " _italics_ " = speaking in Amestrian

His eyes snap open to the sound of echoing laughter.

_Was I dreaming?_

He’s on a train, facing the window. If there’s a single place on earth where the vagabond alchemist feels comfortable, it would definitely be the cabin of a reliable train – he must have fallen asleep. Ed leans back into the plush red seats and closes his eyes.

“ _How much longer do you think we have to go, Al_?”

He’s met with silence.

Eyes open once again, Ed jerks away from the window and realizes he’s alone.

“ _No way_ ,” he breathes.

Suddenly, information floods his brain and any coherent thought is quickly lost in a sea of knowledge: Truth’s deal, that feral grin, Al, Tom Marvolo Riddle young and handsome no wait pale and disfigured red eyes red red, Muggles what are Muggles no Gate no magic, 150 points for the golden snitch, Nina as she was pigtails and all, “the wand chooses the wizard”, mandrake roots and petrified students, house elves with tennis ball eyes and dirty pillowcases, ghosts that teach and haunt and joke and fume, Ravenclaw’s diadem in a room that keeps changing it’s important so important why why why, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, that feral grin, “ _Brother!_ ”, Nicholas Flamel and his Philosopher’s Stone how how how how how, Harry Potter his lightning scar eyes too green hair too messy brave so brave, broomsticks racing through the sky, owls carrying mail, lightning scar, find the Horcruxes find them find them destroy them, “ _Mee…stuh…let’s…play…_ ”, a silver locket hidden in a dank old house, a raggedy man a big black dog sitting in Azkaban wizarding prison, an inescapable whiteness and a towering Gate that cursed Gate, an old castle in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, a serpent so large it travels through the plumbing it’s called a basilisk why does he know that, a ring under the floorboards, that grin that awful grin…

It’s too much. It won’t stop.

The interior of the train is tilting and his head spins as he takes in everything all at once. He’s overwhelmed by the minute differences in what should be familiar, but clearly isn’t, and overstimulated by the foreign smells and the strange methodical clanking of the train’s wheels and the taste of stale air on his tongue. Everything becomes ten times worse when he can make out a disembodied grin float in and out of his vision.

He squeezes his eyes shut and curls in on himself.

_Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium, boron,…_

His breathing even outs. Ed pats his face while he recites and is oddly comforted by the lack of feeling in his heavy right arm.

_Automail’s still here._

It grounds him, knowing that the evidence of his misfortune is the same as ever, even if everything else has changed. A permanent reminder of what he’s lost, of the oaths he’s sworn.

He keeps his eyes shut until he finishes listing all of the elements on the periodic table, when he feels as if the inundation of knowledge has calmed into a manageable stream.

1, 2, 3… He opens his eyes again and surveys himself and his surroundings.

 _Take things slow_.

He’s wearing his normal clothes… kind of. His ~~obnoxious~~ stylish red jacket is missing, as is the cropped black cardigan he normally wears underneath. On the seat beside him is a heavy-duty black denim jacket. Instead of his normal black T-shirt, he’s wearing a long-sleeved mock-neck that hides the bit of his automail port that normally peeks out. At least he’s still wearing his leather trousers and he still has his worn-in boots. And of course, he has his gloves.

He pats himself down and frowns at the absence of his silver watch.

“Right then,” he says aloud, in English.

He claps his left hand over his mouth. _What the fuck was that?_

Ed opens his mouth warily. “Hello?” Pause. “ _Hello?_ ”

_Holy shit, that’s going to take some getting used to._

He’s unconsciously using an entirely different language and understanding it. Somehow, he can just tell what he’s saying and if he likes, he can make the effort to switch back to Amestrian.

This is becoming increasingly more unsettling than he imagined was possible.

 _I’ve got to sort this somehow_ , he thinks. _Slowly_.

He takes his time to organize the particulars of what he’s learned in the last few minutes alone. There’s the information about Tom Marvolo Riddle and related to him is information on a boy named Harry Potter, who is apparently Riddle’s nemesis (isn’t that just sad?) and very limited information on random objects called… Horcruxes? There’s the locations of the Hallows – just as Truth promised – which is definitely important. And there are details on the school, Hogwarts, and the events of the last two years, during which there had been conflicts between Riddle and Potter. And lastly, there is the immense catalogue of every spell, plant, potion, creature, knick-knack, and miscellaneous fun fact that Ed thinks he might ever need to know about the wizarding world. Like, when would Edward ever need to confront an actual ghost?

“ _Cannot fucking believe_ ghosts _are real here_ ,” he complains. “ _Can you believe this shit, Al?_ ”

_Oh. Right. Fuck._

He keeps forgetting he’s alone, truly alone, for the first time in fifteen years. There’s no Al here, no Winry, no Granny Pinako. No Hawkeye either, no Havoc, no Falman, no Breda, hell, not even a Colonel Bastard to make fun of.

No one. He has no one.

Ed slaps his cheeks with both hands to shake him from his stupor.

“ _Not the fucking time or place. Get a grip, Fullmetal._ ”

It’s comforting to hear Amestrian, even if it’s his own voice, and calling himself by his ridiculous title almost makes it feel like he’s back home, getting orders he definitely doesn’t agree with from Mustang.

He sighs, weary before anything’s even begun.

 _First, the watch_ , he reminds himself. _Then, the rest of this dumpster fire._

He searches the cabin and finds a large trunk placed on the shelf above him, with “Edward Elric” stamped next to the handle. He yanks it down and opens it.

Inside, he finds several changes of clothes, all variations of what he’s wearing now and all black. Excellent.

“ _Good thing there’s underwear and socks too,_ ” he mutters as he takes inventory. “ _Still no watch_.”

There’s a pouch that Ed opens to find an impossible amount of odd coins of different shapes and sizes. _Galleons, Sickles, Knuts,_ his brain supplies helpfully. _One Galleon is 17 Sickles, one Sickle is 29 Knuts. Pouch has an Undetectable Extension Charm. You have enough money in the pouch to last three lifetimes here. You don’t have a bank account, but normally wizards use the vaults at Gringotts. The bank is run by goblins and is impossible to rob. Rumors say there’s a dragon in there._

“ _Fucking hell, that’s so uncomfortable_ ,” Ed says. Anytime he sees or even thinks about anything magic-related, it’s like his brain goes on auto-pilot and proceeds to spit out any and all relevant information. For the most part, the endless stream of information is swimming around in his head, moving too fast for him to settle on anything for too long until he focuses on any one thing.

_I’m going to have to work on that, otherwise I’m going to look dazed all the time and I’ll be useless if attacked._

Moving on, he sorts through the books stashed in the trunk and reads off some of the titles. “ _These look like textbooks? Why would I have… oh no, they fucking didn’t!_ ”

He tears through the rest of the trunk, sending everything in disarray as he looks for evidence supporting his current hypothesis.

There’s a note at the bottom, written in Amestrian.

 _To the little alchemist,_ it starts.

Ed glares at it in contempt.

_You’ll be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a third-year transfer. The paperwork has already been completed, so no need to worry about the logistics._

_Remember! Riddle and the Hallows, or else._

_P.S. third-years are_ thirteen-year-old’s. _I figured with your “stature”, you’d fit right in. You’re welcome!_

The note is in shreds as soon as Ed reads the postscript.

“ _WHO ARE THEY CALLING A TINY LITTLE PIPSQUEAK WHO CAN’T GO TO THE BEACH BECAUSE HE’S SO SMALL HE’LL SINK INTO THE SAND_ ,” Ed fumes, crashing down on the seats with his arms crossed. “ _That fucking asshole thinks they’re so goddamn funny! Haven’t been to school in, like, a decade! Think everything through my ass, that asshole is fucking with me AND I CAN’T EVEN FUCKING YELL AT YOU TO YOUR FACE!_ ” He shouts the last part in no direction in particularly, but makes sure to avoid looking up, not because Ed thinks Heaven was a Real Thing, but because he didn’t want there to be any misconception by others who subscribed to those ideas that he _is_ yelling at god. Bastard may be god, but they definitely belong in Hell, wherever it was.

He realizes then that he sat down on the jacket and pulls it out from under him. Rifling through the pockets, he pulls out his missing State Alchemist watch with a sigh of relief and immediately puts it back into one of the pockets (which are clearly charmed to prevent things from falling out). He also discovers a long, smooth stick. It’s stained a reddish-brown and is rather plain at first glance. However, on the bottom of the handle, there’s a carving of an empty array.

_Yew, phoenix feather, 10 inches. Yew, known for the power it grants the owner in dueling and cursing, often stereotyped to be a wood that leans towards the Dark Arts. Yew is also considered to be the wood of those named “fierce protectors”. Fun fact: identical make-up to the wand of Riddle, although the wood comes from a different tree and the feather from a different bird._

“ _God, stop, please just stop,_ ” Ed moans, head in his hands.

He rubs his temples as he waits for the information to fade to a dull buzz in the background. It’s getting easier to digest the sudden bursts of information he notices, and he guesses the sooner he gets up to speed with everyday knowledge in this world, the less likely he will be bombarded with it at a moment’s notice.

 _Might as well get reading then_.

He slips on the jacket, feeling exposed despite his automail being completely covered, and slides the wand into an inside pocket.

There are too many books to choose from, but since he’s going (reluctantly) back to school, he figures the best choice is _Hogwarts, A History_. He takes it from his trunk, packs everything else away, and starts reading. All of the information is vaguely familiar, but as he reads, whatever Truth did to his brain solidifies everything as he processes it. By the time he finishes the book, a lot of information has settled down in his brain and he can almost think clearly for the first time since waking up.

The reading definitely helps with the processing errors he’s running into, so that’s at least a good start.

He powers through two other books, _Spellman’s Syllabary_ , a fascinating book regarding something called “ancient runes”, and _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 3_ , which is completely dry, but a necessary evil. Reading the spell book branches off into a rather extensive network of other “standard” spells Ed hadn’t actually learned, but could now reference as needed.

He has realized though, that the information provided is not limitless: some things do not automatically register in his brain. At first, because everything was so new and different, there was no end to the stream of information that completely consumed his train of thought, and he had to take things rather slow. Eventually, he discovered that anything that wasn’t “common knowledge” or “necessary” for his survival didn’t come to him (un)naturally, such as the entirety of the ancient runes text. (He enjoyed it regardless.)

His hair is falling into his face after who knows how much time has passed and he lets out a small noise of irritation as he rips off the hair tie at the end.

As he undoes his braid, he closes the book, looks up, and is surprised to see he’s not alone.

“ _Who-_ Who the fuck are you?” he switches to English, trying and failing not to grimace at the ease with which the foreign words leave his mouth. 

(Of course, Ed and Al have always read a lot, are naturally curious, and like to learn: they’re usually considered know-it-all’s. But Ed’s never had so much access to information all at once, information that he didn’t actually learn but just intuitively knows and understands, and he didn’t think it’d be possible, but this entire situation is impossible, so he’s learning to deal with it.)

His hair is loose about him, but he abandons braiding it for the moment.

“Oh! Um, sorry, s-sorry, I just, I couldn’t find another compartment and the train was, it was starting to move, and you were here alone, and I did, I asked if it might be alright for me to sit, to sit here,” the boy rambles, turning paler than is healthy for a human being. “But you didn’t, um, yeah, you didn’t answer, and I was told I had to be seated, so I, um, I sat in here.”

 _He’s dressed funny_. _Wizard robes_ , Ed’s brain jumps on the thought.

Ed immediately feels bad for being so aggressive when the other boy is clearly terrified. He looks young, probably younger than Ed is (even if he _might_ be t-a-l-l-e-r).

“Oh. Sorry, that’s my fault, I get really focused when I’m reading. I’m Ed. And you’re…?”

“Right, I’m, I’m Neville. Longbottom. Neville Longbottom. Nice to meet you, Ed-edward.”

“Just call me Ed.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Ed.”

Neville hasn’t stopped stuttering since he’s started talking.

“Did I do something to you? Why the hell are you so nervous?”

The boy jumps a little. “No! No, you didn’t, I’m just, I’m a coward,” he mumbles the last part and Ed scowls, which makes Neville wince.

“Why did you say that,” he barks.

“It’s, I mean, it’s true? Everyone else thinks so too.”

“Don’t say shit like that about yourself,” Ed snaps. He sets his book aside.

“S-s-sorry,” Neville stutters, which only makes Ed angrier.

“Don’t be fucking sorry! Why are you apologizing? You should apologize to yourself! People in life are always going to give you crap and say dumb shit because they’ve got nothing better to do, but that doesn’t mean you just sit there and take it. Stand up for yourself and take no one’s shit. Got it?”

He didn’t even notice he had stood up at some point and is glaring down at the other boy, a gloved finger pointed at his face.

Neville nods furiously with wide eyes, clearly scared stiff by the strange boy sitting in front of him. _Must be a Gryffindor_ , he thinks a little enviously, _a_ proper _Gryffindor_.

Upon receiving confirmation from Neville, Ed gives a little nod in return and plops himself down on the seat. He starts braiding his hair again.

“So, Neville,” he says conversationally as he does so, “What year are you?”

“I’m, I’m a third-year.”

“Okay, me too.”

“Uh, I’ve never seen you, er, around, before?” Neville hesitates as he says it, the lilt in his voice turning the statement into a question. Ed ignores the nervous demeanor for now and ties the end of his hair. He also forces himself to ignore that Neville seems to believe he’s _thirteen_. He flips his braid over his shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m new.”

“Oh! Oh. I didn’t know that you could do that. So, you’re transferring in?”

“I guess.” Ed shrugs.

“How come?” Then hastily tacked on. “If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Shit happens, things change, it’s for the better, and all that jazz.” Ed waves a hand flippantly.

He takes the time to scrutinize the boy in front of him for the first time. Round face, brown hair, cute freckles. Fidgety. He’s holding a toad in his hands (which would be weird if Ed didn’t already know about the kind of animals wizards keep as pets), stroking its warty skin fondly, which just kills Ed inside.

(It’s like watching Al coo over yet another stray kitten. “ _Can we keep this one, Brother? Please?_ ”)

“Have you already been Sorted then?”

 _Sorted into one of the four Hogwarts houses_ , Ed’s brain supplies as he jolts from his reminiscing.

“Not yet. I think I will be once we get there.”

“Do you think you know where you’ll be Sorted?”

“I don’t really care, honestly. It’s not that important, is it?”

“Er… it’s pretty important?”

“ _Figures wizards care about petty shit like this,_ ” Ed grumbles.

“What?”

“Huh?”

“I didn’t catch what you just, what you said just now.”

_Shit. You’re losing your touch, Fullmetal. Undercover, remember?_

“It’s my mother tongue. It’s actually my first time in England.” _Truth, you fucking asshole, you better cover for me._

“Your English is really good for a foreigner,” Neville offers. “You don’t even have an accent.”

“I, uh, I practice a lot.”

It’s at that awkward pause in their already stilted conversation that the train follows their lead and abruptly comes to a stop.

“Is this normal?” Ed asks, eyebrows scrunched together as he peers out the window. The train is in the middle of nowhere and the gloomy, overcast day is very quickly becoming stormy and dark.

Neville looks even more worried than he had when he first introduced himself. “No, I’ve never seen anything like this happen before.”

“Should we be concerned?”

“I don’t think so?”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They sit in silence as the sky outside turns into complete darkness.

They’ve been sitting for the last three minutes when Ed notices how painfully numb his ports are. He rubs his right shoulder with his left hand and is confused to find that his automail is _freezing_.

“Hey, Neville?” His breath comes out visibly in little puffs.

“Y-y-yeah?” Neville is starting to shiver. He pulls his odd cloak tighter around himself.

“Wh-why’s it s-s-so cold?” Ed’s teeth chatter and he tries unsuccessfully to warm his metal limbs.

“N-n-not s-sure,” Neville responds, now shaking so badly Ed’s not sure it’s just from the cold.

A shadow falls over the glass of the compartment door.

All at once, Ed is consumed by the despair that normally accompanies the memories of his failed resurrection, the creature with twisted limbs and bent neck, that couldn’t move or speak, but had soulless eyes that tracked his every movement. It’s the feeling of dread and anguish that plagued him when he realized he had lost Al.

His breathing is uneven as he pushes himself far away from the door.

“Nev-, Neville!” he stammers, frantically looking for the other boy.

He’s not doing much better. Neville has his eyes shut and his hands are pressed over his ears. He’s whimpering.

The shadow is, in fact, a gaunt, hooded figure that sways slightly in place in front of their door. Whatever it is, it isn’t human; there’s an unearthly quality to the way it moves, slow, yet lethal – Ed realizes it’s floating. It bears no face, but somehow Ed understands that it’s surveying them through the frosted glass. It lifts its hand and Ed recoils at the sight of the blackened flesh, the skeletal fingers scraping gently against the window.

“What the fuck is that?!”

Neville is non-responsive, shaking uncontrollably where he sits, curled into the fetal position.

The creature looms over them not more than two meters away; they are separated from the living nightmare only by the door.

Ed shifts so that he’s standing protectively in between Neville and the demon. He can’t feel the skin around his ports. Reaching into his jacket, he holds out his wand as he would a knife.

He hasn’t ever cast a spell before.

The wand trembles in his left hand.

“St-stupify.” Ed tries to sound confident, but he’s never been more unsure.

In the moment following his first attempt at magic, Ed threatens Truth one (possibly last) time: _if you want Riddle’s soul, you better fucking hold up your end of the deal._

A feeble shower of red sparks leaves the tip of his wand.

“ _FUCK!”_

The demon inhales, the raspy sound grating Ed’s ears. It hasn’t made an effort to enter the compartment, but Ed’s not taking chances.

_“Fucking shit, fuck! Fuck!”_

He abandons trying to use the wand and holds up his fists as if to fight. He doesn’t even know if the creature is corporeal.

It twists its head slowly to the other side as it leans forward, its skeletal hand now pressed flat against the glass.

Every muscle in Ed’s body tenses, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

Nothing happens.

The figure gives the two boys one last look before it slowly turns and drifts off. The moment it’s gone, Ed collapses on the ground next to Neville.

The compartment is still bitterly cold, but the horror and panic that had burgeoned in the demon’s presence fades away. After Ed double-checks that the blasted creature is gone for good, he turns to face Neville, who is huddled on the floor in the corner, still quivering.

“Hey, you-,” he stops as he shudders. “You alright?”

“Is,” Neville begins quietly, “Is it gone?”

“I think so.”

“Wh-what was that?”

So, apparently it wasn’t a regular occurrence to run into a physical manifestation of evil.

“No fucking clue,” Ed replies as he offers Neville his left hand. He accepts it and allows Ed to pull him up from the ground.

“What happened? Where’d it go?”

Ed runs a hand through his hair as both boys settle warily back into the seats. The sky is still a nasty grey color and there’s a distant rumble of thunder. They can still see their own breaths as they exhale.

“I’m honestly not sure, but it looked like it had other things to be doing. Let’s just count ourselves lucky this time,” Ed says. _Not that I’m ever that lucky_ , he tacks on mentally.

Rain begins to fall on the window and the silence is soon filled with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the glass.

“I told you,” Neville says suddenly. His voice is small. “I told you I’m a coward.”

Ed eyes the other boy from where he sits, a severe look of disapproval on his face. “What makes you say that?”

“I c-c-couldn’t even do anything when that thing was here. I was so scared I thought, well, I thought, you know, I was going to die. And you? You just, you stood in front of it and tried to fight. You stood in front of _me_ , tried to protect me, while I sat there uselessly.” Neville focuses on his shoes. He’s afraid to watch the weird, but brave stranger in front of him agree with what could only be considered the truth.

Ed takes his time considering Neville’s words and tries to find the right thing to say. He’s angry the way he seldom actually is, where he can feel the heat of his fury behind his eyes and in his ears. Not at Neville, obviously, but at the people who are clearly doing everything they can to break down the boy’s self-esteem and sense of self to nothing.

“Listen up,” Ed starts. He waits until Neville looks him in the eye before continuing. “Let me tell you right now that being a coward has nothing to do with being scared about things that are actually fucking terrifying. Being scared of a happiness-sucking demon? That’s not being a coward, that’s common fucking sense.”

He stares at the other boy intently as he says the next thing.

“You can be scared and be brave, Neville. Being a coward is knowing what’s right and what’s wrong and still doing the wrong thing for whatever fucking reason. So, stop calling yourself a fucking coward unless you think you’re the kind of shitty asshole who’d pull that crap.”

He watches Neville’s stunned expression morph into something uncertain.

“Are you a coward, Neville?” Ed asks.

The unsure look wavers and then changes and settles into something determined.

“No, I’m not,” Neville responds, the most confident he’s been the entire train ride.

“Good. Don’t let me hear otherwise.”

The rest of the train ride passes without incident. They didn’t find out what happened with the creature until the snack-trolley comes by and the witch manning the cart let them know that the so-called “dementor” was actually on patrol, but had gotten closer to the Hogwarts Express than was permitted.

“Nasty little surprise, but no harm done, right, dearies?”

Ed buys a chocolate frog for himself and for Neville, making a face at the assortment of pumpkin-flavored snacks as he does so. (Who likes _pumpkin_?)

“Right,” he says sarcastically, but the witch doesn’t notice or blatantly ignores his attitude, just gives them a smile and a wave as she continues merrily down the train.

Ed spends the rest of the train ride getting to know Neville. There’s no longer any discomfort or awkwardness after the talk Ed had given Neville and the boy isn’t stuttering anymore. Ed finds that Neville’s true personality is great: the boy is witty and kind and passionate about Herbology (which Ed only really knows the basics of, so he’s content to let Neville rant about the complexities of the subject that most people ignore). His one downfall is that he’s plagued by horrible anxiety that Ed guesses stems from his overbearing grandmother (and extended family in general) and some teacher from school named Snape. As he gets to know what Neville is like under his exterior, he’s reminded of Al, who’s always been the favorite of grandmothers and children and animals, who’s sweet and considerate of others without ulterior motives. If Neville grew out of his nervousness, forged that uncertainty in him into a core of iron, he’d be so similar to the Al who’s beaten Ed ruthlessly in every relentless spar while also being the most good-hearted person Ed knows.

In the back of his mind, Ed’s also repeating the memory of hot, sizzling red sparks erupting from the end of his wand. He can feel the ghost of that strange tingle on his fingertips. There’s nothing comforting about the raw power _magic_ seems to entail; it’s completely foreign from the familiar crackle of electricity that accompanies his usual displays of alchemy, enveloped in the comforting scent of a storm.

 _It’s unsettling_ , Ed thinks. _That spell didn’t even work right and it felt that strong._

Ed knows the repercussions for lawless alchemy; he shudders to think what follows a misuse of magic.

As the train nears its stop, Neville opens his trunk and begins looking for a change of clothes. Ed tracks his movements around the compartment without a thought.

“Are you not going to change, Ed?”

“Why do I need to-,” he stops short as he remembers that this school required its students to wear uniforms. Okay, but he hadn’t had any appropriate robes in his trunk. Not that he’d wear a uniform anyhow; he hadn’t worn one while serving in the military, so there’s no way he’s going to cave and wear one for _school_. “Nah, I didn’t bother to buy any. I don’t do uniforms.”

Neville shakes his head in disbelief and then suddenly, he laughs. “Will you let me speak at your funeral?” He pretends to be solemn, wiping away a tear that isn’t there. “I’ve only known the guy for a few hours, but I warned him, I swear I did.”

Ed snorts. “Neville, that’s the ballsy-est thing you’ve said all day. Keep it up.”

Neville flushes, but grins at Ed and then gets to work putting on his robes. Ed leans back in his seat and yawns, before stretching his arms overhead. He systematically cracks the knuckles on his left hand and then twists to either side to crack his spine. Lastly, he jerks his head left and right, cracking his neck.

The Hogwarts Express pulls into the station and Edward Elric stands, hands smoothing over his travel-wrinkled jacket.

“ _Ready._ ”

* * * * *

There’s a gigantic man waiting outside the train.

“Firs’ years! Firs’ years o’er here! Firs’ years, and, er, what’s that, Edg-, no, Edward Elric!” The man struggles to read Ed’s name off a scrap of parchment in the dim light.

Ed gives Neville a cocky salute before following the mass of literal children that flocks to the giant’s side. They had already said goodbye’s as they left the train, with Neville certain he’d see the other boy around soon.

 _He’s definitely a Gryffindor,_ Neville thinks, before reflecting for a bit on the new kid’s penchant for reading and love of discussing any and all topics. _Maybe he’s a Ravenclaw_ , he muses. _I hope he’s a Gryffindor, though._

In the meantime, Ed approaches the giant. “Sir? You called my name, I’m Edward Elric.”

The man’s face is mostly hidden by a thick mane of hair and an impressive beard, but Ed can practically feel the brightness in his eyes and the friendliness in his smile.

“No need to call me sir! You can jus’ call me Hagrid.”

“Then you can call me Ed,” he offers, the corner of his lip quirking up in a ghost of a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Ed. I’ll be takin’ you and the firs’ years to the castle once everyone’s here.”

“Great,” Ed says, and means it. “Thank you, Hagrid.”

“’S not a problem, Ed.” Hagrid beams at him one more time before turning and bellowing at the mass of students still filing off the train. “Firs’ years! Firs’ years this way!”

Soon enough, Hagrid rounded up the seemingly endless stream of eleven-year-olds wandering around the station and herded them, as well as Ed, towards the edge of a lake, where countless wooden boats floated patiently.

“Four to a boat,” Hagrid announces, before sliding into one all by himself.

Ed isn’t keen on getting in, but clambers into one nonetheless, all while wondering how the other students were going to arrive. Neville had definitely walked off in a different direction from the lake and Ed imagines wistfully that the other students get to go to the school in a completely normal fashion. At this point, the three first-years who are also in this boat “ooh” and “ah”, despite there being nothing interesting happening. They’re literally just sitting in a dinky little boat on a pitch-black lake.

He has to stop the impulse to transmute his arm into a blade when the boat lurches forward without warning and without assistance from anyone or anything.

 _Magic_ , he reminds himself, irritated. _Completely illogical, fucking unreasonable, MAGIC._ His fingers, flesh and metal, clench the sides of the tiny magic boat and watches as they are steered to follow Hagrid.

Eventually, a medieval castle appears in the darkness, sitting upon the rocky edge of the lake. It’s lit by the pale light of the moon and while there’s a swell of noise as the first-years gape and gasp and fawn over Hogwarts, the sight of his new prison reminds Ed of everything he didn’t sign up for and he has to bite back his desire to snarl.

_Cannot fucking believe what that shithole is making me do._

He’s so caught up in his renewed anger at Truth for enrolling him into school (which he hasn’t done in years) and the prospect of actually being surrounded by _magic_ , that he barely notices any of the castle as the horde of students arrive in a corridor where they are instructed to wait. Ghosts pop out of the walls and the paintings move but nothing is interesting enough (especially since he already _knew_ everything about the school) to pull Ed away from his current dilemma: _maybe this is the time to run…?_

Ed doesn’t run. More accurately, he doesn’t have the time to run, because an older witch walks up to the group and begins talking about what comes next. He’s not really listening, doesn’t really care one way or another, because he’s fully grasping that he’s a prisoner of his own making, when he hears, “Mr. Elric?”

“Yeah,” he says, actually paying attention now. “I mean, yes. Ma’am?”

“Where are your robes, Mr. Elric?” The disapproval is all too clear in her tone and her eyes and her mouth, which is set in a stern line.

“Don’t have any,” he answers. “Professor McGonagall.” He adds, figuring he should make use of what he already knows. He also uses the completely polite voice he’s only ever used with military brass who control his access to certain necessary resources. (He learned from the best; _cough – Mustang – cough._ )

Without changing her expression, Minerva McGonagall manages to look more severe than she had several seconds before.

“We will continue this discussion at a later time, Mr. Elric. As it is, we will be late for the Sorting.”

Ed can tell McGonagall was completely ready to tear his head off, had she not needed to stick to whatever predetermined schedule there was. She’s absolutely terrifying, of course, but this is a hill Ed is willing to die on. He may not have his red coat, but there’s no way he’s going to start wearing ties and sweater vests, magic school or no magic school.

There’s no more time to think about potential excuses for his lack of “proper attire”, because they’re in the Great Hall and are subjected to the eyes of hundreds of other kids.

 _That’s what they are_ , Ed thinks a tad bitterly, _they’re_ kids _. Actual kids, not a “kid” like me._

(Ed hasn’t referred to himself as a kid since the day he lost his limbs. He still thinks of Al as one though, because Al deserves to be.)

The first-years (and Ed) stand at the front of the Hall and watch as McGonagall places a rickety stool directly center-stage. There’s a ragged old hat on top.

The Sorting is the one thing Ed didn’t really know about, even after all that reading, as apparently, it’s some centuries-old secret and rite of passage that every English witch and wizard should experience as a surprise (and isn’t that annoying as all hell). He’s actually curious what the Sorting will be like.

The entire Great Hall is quiet as everyone watches the hat in anticipation of something, anything, to happen. The hat sits innocently upon the stool.

And then it’s not just sitting there, it’s _singing._

Ed grooms his expression into one that betrays no emotion. This was the great trial that these magicians raved about in _history books_? Pathetic.

Once the hat stops singing, McGonagall steps forward again and begins calling students forward to wear the hat, which then yells out which House they belong in. The list is alphabetical, but the E’s pass by, and Ed’s still standing at the front of the Hall.

Once the last first-year has been called, an ancient wizard with bizarre robes stands up and begins introducing Ed to the rest of Hogwarts.

_So, this is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts._

The students around him are buzzing with something, possibly excitement, at the news of a transfer student, which Ed chalks up to transferring being a rare occurrence.

When McGonagall gestures toward the hat, Ed walks up to the school, careful to keep his expression neutral.

He sits down and McGonagall sets the hat on his head.

 **_Well, well, well, aren’t_ ** **you _something else?_**

It’s only his years of military service that prevents him from jumping in alarm.

_What the literal fuck is happening?_

**_That’s quite a mouth for such a small child._ **

_BASTARD, I AM NOT A FUCKING CHILD AND WHO THE HELL IS SMALL? I AM OF AVERAGE HEIGHT!_ AVERAGE HEIGHT _, YOU HEAR ME!_

 ** _How could I not,_** the hat says wryly. **_You’re essentially screaming. At a hat._**

Ed’s face contorts into a scowl.

_Don’t you have a job to be doing, you shit-rag._

He can hear that the hat is laughing at him and the disembodied laughter does nothing to calm him down. If anything, it reminds him of the reason he’s here in the first place.

 **_Mmm, I appreciate the comparison,_ ** **little alchemist _._**

Ed stops breathing. The voice isn’t right, it’s clearly different, but the tone of the words makes it sound like the hat thinks it’s better than him, which feels like a five-inch needle directly to his spine.

 **_Not to worry,_ ** **little alchemist, _your secrets are safe with me._**

_Don’t call me that! Fuck. If I had known you could read minds or whatever I wouldn’t have agreed to do this._

**_You hardly had a choice now, did you? Sent against your will and all._ **

Ed grumbles.

**_I can see you have had quite a life already. Only fifteen and already in this so-called military of yours. Suffering so much loss._ **

The image of his mother flashes in his mind, followed by Al as he’d last seen him, a seven-foot-tall metal armor. His ports ache.

**_And through it all, you have demonstrated bravery, a thirst for knowledge, and an inconceivable amount of ambition. You wish to restore your brother and yourself to your original forms? And on top of that, you seek to kill He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named? Quite ambitious indeed._ **

_How the fuck are you doing this? Stop looking in my head if you know what’s good for you._

The hat ignores him and continues to talk. Ed curls his lip back, baring teeth.

**_But more than anything, I sense loyalty. I can see a loyalty to those you love and swore to protect, a loyalty that will likely get you killed._ **

_You don’t fucking know anything, shut the fuck up!_

**_To have come all this way, just to save one little girl._ **

Ed is furious, so much so that the fingers on his left hand are numb from being pressed into a fist for too long. He barely registers the crowd of intrigued students watching him from the tables below.

_Fuck you. Fuck you! FUCK YOU! STOP LOOKING!_

**_Loyal to a fault._ **

An image of Nina asking him to play flashes unwillingly in the forefront of his mind.

_Stop talking, stop looking, shut up, shut up, shut up!_

**_Tell me,_ ** **little alchemist _, are you prepared to die for the sake of Nina Tucker?_**

The hat sounds so much like Truth in that moment that Ed stills, a feeling of dread pooling in his gut.

**_Will you die to save her?_ **

He’s torn. He has other promises to keep, but he’d made this promise as well.

**_Would you?_ **

_I wouldn’t die for her._

The hat seems surprised, but Ed continues before it can interrupt him.

_I won’t die for anyone. But I’ll fight for any of them._

Faces and names come to mind at the thought. He can practically hear the way they say his name, usually exasperated, but overwhelmingly fond.

**_Then it’s quite clear where you belong._ **

_Then get on with it, asshole. I can’t_ stand _you._

The hat laughs again. **Little alchemist,** it starts.

_DON’T. DON’T CALL ME THAT!_

**Little alchemist, _you belong to…_**

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The hat shouts aloud. One of the four rows of tables bursts into applause and cheers, but Ed doesn’t give a shit about that right now.

He rips the hat off his head and glares at the odd folds and tears that composes its face.

“If you ever, ever pull that shit again, ever think to do what you just did, ever talk about what you’ve seen to _anyone_ , I’LL FUCKING TURN YOU INTO TROLL UNDERWEAR. UNDERSTOOD?”

He swears the hat is smirking at him. Ed tosses the hat onto the floor and stomps down on its shit-eating grin once, before going to join the Hufflepuffs, who are now sitting in stony silence. The entire Hall, in fact, is silent. Not that the Fullmetal Alchemist notices.

“ _Stupid, fucking piece of cloth reading my god-damn mind and trying to act all high and mighty like SOME OTHER BASTARD I KNOW,_ _cannot_ believe _the amount of bullshit I’m putting up with right now, this dumb school and its dumb Houses and its dumb hat that reads FUCKING MINDS!_ ” Ed mutters as he looks for a seat.

There’s an empty spot at the end (thankfully) of the Hufflepuff table and Ed sits down with a huff.

Dumbledore gets up at that point and after saying some useless pleasantries, begins to make some introductions to changes in staff.

“Professor Remus Lupin will be in charge of Defense Against the Dark Arts this year. And our very own groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, will be taking over Care of Magical Creatures following the retirement of Professor Kettleburn.”

There’s polite applause and a few cheers.

At this point, Dumbledore also casually mentions that the “dementors” from before will be hanging around in search of “serious black”, which sets off another wave of whispering amongst the students. Ed feels like he should know what the “serious black” is, thinks it sounds really familiar, but can’t quite explain why he feels that way when he’s too busy obsessing over what the hat had said to him.

**_Will you die to save her?_ **

_Am I going to die here?_

“With that, I only have one thing left to say: _lettuce_ eat!”

Ed physically restrains himself from slapping his hand against his face.

* * * * *

No one talks to him while he eats and Ed is fine with that. It might be that they’re afraid of him after his display of anger shortly after his Sorting, but it’s more likely the fact that Ed has disgusting eating habits and chews his food like he’s going to die tomorrow and this is his last meal. Al isn’t around to make excuses and apologize for him either.

Once the feast is finally over, Ed follows the rest of the Hufflepuffs to their dormitory. On his way out of the Great Hall, he spots Neville with the rest of the Gryffindors and he gives a little wave before chasing after the guy who introduced himself as one of the Hufflepuff prefects.

The door is at the end of a corridor decorated with giant ceiling-to-floor tapestries and paintings. It’s actually the face of a giant barrel, one of many stacked in a pyramid.

“Password’s easy,” Mr. Prefect says with a handsome grin, “Just ask nicely.”

Apparently, the door will pretty much open for anyone, which Ed considers a serious security risk, until Mr. Prefect explains that it’s become a Hufflepuff tradition to say and do miscellaneous things while “opening” the door, so that any students from other Houses will try to do the same, without realizing the important part is the “please” and “thank you”. He laughs as he recalls he’d once seen some pranksters try to break in, but had copied Leo Davies (currently a seventh-year), who had sang and danced to the entirety of “It’s Raining Men” when he had opened the door.

With that, Mr. Prefect asks the door very respectfully to allow them entrance, thanks it once it does so, and then waves them inside.

It’s a warm, cozy, cottage-like room, filled with potted plants and knick-knacks carved out of wood and set with magically glittering stones. There are countless comfortable velvet armchairs and sofas, all different jewel-tones, and a million cushions of various sizes and designs are scattered about the dark wooden floor. There’s an impressive fireplace, complete with a merrily crackling fire. Somehow, they’ve enchanted lights to twinkle like fireflies in the air around the common room. The stone walls are almost completely hidden by ivy, only interrupted by tall wall-length windows that are decorated with moving stained-glass, depicting mythical creatures.

Ed feels terribly out of place, not for the first time. He’s used to crappy military quarters, with minimal furniture and bare, peeling walls.

“It’s nice, isn’t it,” Mr. Prefect comments.

“Yeah. Nice,” Ed parrots, unsure how to feel about living here for an indeterminate amount of time.

“You’ll be living with Justin, Ernie, Zach, Archie, and Elliot,” Mr. Prefect continues, pointing them out. The students in question freeze, looking terrified. He beckons them over and they do, albeit hesitantly.

“This is Ed, he’ll be rooming with you guys from now on.”

The five other boys introduce themselves meekly, but Justin Finch-Fletchley gives the impression that he’s not pleased with this development at all. Ed ignores it and says it’s nice to meet them, even if it’s not.

“Er, I’ll show you to the room? Boys’ dormitory is that way,” Archie Williams says, lifting a hand to point out a corridor off to the left.

“Thanks. I’m dead tired,” Ed responds. He’s exhausted. He’s been awake for what feels like days, what with all the Truth negotiating and subsequent reality-hopping that occurred.

The other boy laughs nervously and then starts walking, with Ed and the rest of his new roommates following behind him.

The room is a little less “enchanted” than the common room, which Ed is deeply grateful for. It’s still warm, still cozy, but there are simple wooden four-poster beds with mustard-yellow curtains surrounding them. The beds are covered with thick embroidered quilts and there’s a colorful rug on the floor. There’s also a sturdy wooden nightstand to the right of each bed. At the end of the room, there’s a large window with a cushioned sill, so that a person could comfortably sit upon it.

It reminds him of the houses in Resembool, which makes Ed painfully nostalgic for what would be home. (If he hadn’t burned his down.)

“That one’s yours,” Ernie Macmillan says, pointing to the bed on the left side of the room, closest to the window. His trunk stands at the foot of the bed.

“Great. Thanks.” He walks over to it as the other boys awkwardly set about getting ready for bed. It’s mostly silent in the room, but Ed ignores it and focuses instead on what he needs to get done so he can pass out. Ed doesn’t bother to change (he can’t, anyway, with the other boys milling about) and pulls out his toothbrush and walks into the bathroom attached to the dorm room.

He figures he’ll shower in the morning (when no one else is awake) and clambers into bed after brushing his teeth and washing his face. He yanks off his boots (his automail foot hidden by the socks he’s wearing) and leaves them neatly to the side.

“Night,” he says, more to be polite than anything, and he pulls the curtains around his bed shut. He can’t hear a thing after he does so; the curtains must be spelled to keep out noise.

Once he’s sure no one can see him, he takes off his jacket, puts his wand underneath his pillow, and folds the jacket before placing it at the foot of his bed. He debates taking off the gloves as well, but decides against it after thinking about any surprises his roommates might spring on him while he’s asleep. The gloves stay on.

And then he’s out like a light.

* * * * *

As soon as the curtains are pulled shut around the transfer kid’s bed, Justin turns to the other boys: “What the hell is his deal?”

Elliot Lee winces and anxiously presses a finger to his mouth. “Shhh! He’ll hear you!”

Ernie nods his head in agreement, glancing towards the bed in question.

“Curtains, remember?,” Zacharias Smith says dryly as he rolls his eyes. “Why not be upfront about it anyhow? Everyone was dying to know about him during the feast.”

“He didn’t even bother to change,” Justin crinkles his nose.

“He said he was tired, remember?” Archie says defensively. “We can talk to him tomorrow. It’s probably weird for him too, being at a new school and everything.”

“Fine,” Justin concedes. “Still think he has a problem,” he mutters under his breath. Archie shoots him a look, but doesn’t comment on it.

Elliot and Ernie begin chatting animatedly about what they did over the summer holidays, while Zach takes advantage of the lull in conversation to slip into the bathroom before they’re all fighting over it, as is the norm. Both Justin and Archie talk about which subjects they’ve chosen as electives, the two boys pretending to be nonchalant about their choices, but coming off as if they care too much about what the others think about them (which is perfectly typical of thirteen-year-old’s).

As the boys slowly get into bed and turn out the lights, they all have the same thought in the back of their minds.

Maybe third year would be eventful for Hufflepuff with their newest addition; Merlin knows Harry Potter and his problems aren’t the only things happening at this school.

* * * * *

Ed wakes from a nightmare with his gloved fist pressed hard against his mouth, a scream caught in the back of his throat.

“ _Shit,_ ” he breathes, trying to calm his racing heart. “ _You’re fine, Fullmetal. It’s fine._ ”

He desperately wishes Al were here. Al, with his calm demeanor, who was the ultimate voice of reason. Who would understand what plagued Ed when he closed his eyes due to their shared trauma.

This, on the other hand, is all brand new and he has no one by his side who could understand why sleep tortured him.

He’d dreamt of a snake-like man, with red eyes and pale skin, of the Hallows he seeks to find, slipping through his fingers like smoke when he reaches for them. A ring cursed in a way that is a little too close to home, a wand held in hands too big to pry them from, a cloak tucked away in plain sight.

The subject matter of the dream hadn’t been what startled him awake; it was the way the disjointed images had elicited the gun-to-your-temple sensation he’d only ever felt around Truth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Ed groans softly. He parts the curtain slightly, just so he can see out the window to the left of his bed.

The moon is still high in the sky and it can’t be later than three or four in the morning. Ed assumes the rest of the boys are sound asleep.

He leans back with his back pressed against the headboard and pulls off his gloves. Rolling up his sleeve, he stares at his arm with despondency. He trails his fingers over the grooves in the metal and eventually grips his shoulder, where automail meets flesh. Ed sits like that for a while, breathing through his nose with his eyes clamped shut and his fingers roaming over the unfeeling metal of his right arm.

Both his arm and leg are unforgiving and indifferent. They are simultaneously a punishment and a blessing; they will never let him forgive himself, but they’ve also saved his life more than once. His automail is the cursed cornerstone of who he is and who he will become in time. He’s grateful for it when he’s wallowing in his loneliness: he ~~can’t~~ won’t die before he returns Al to his real body.

Eventually, he forces himself to get out of bed (gloves and jacket pulled on, of course), put on his shoes, and go exercise for a bit to clear his head.

 _Should probably practice “magic” before classes actually start anyway_ , he thinks ruefully as he makes his way out of the castle.

The night is blissfully cool and Ed decides to head towards the distant outline of the Quidditch training pitch.

(When Ed read about Quidditch in _Hogwarts, A History_ , he had had to set the book down for seven minutes just to collect himself. Flying. Flying on brooms. Just. What.)

He stretches himself out on the grass of the pitch, hidden from view by the hedges that border the entire thing. Not that anyone was awake to see him in the first place. He goes through a series of his usual workouts and physical therapy exercises before he decides to switch gears and attempt to figure out how to use his wand.

Holding what equated to a decorated stick in his hand makes him feel foolish and childlike, which he despises, but he needs this stick to like him or something, because otherwise he really will be fucked the next time anything happens.

 _The wand chooses the wizard, right?,_ he thinks to himself, before he starts talking to the wand.

“ _It’s just you and me, buddy, so maybe don’t pull shit like you did yesterday, okay?_ ”

He figures it is _his_ wand so it should understand Amestrian (if it could even understand language – ha!) and it’s dumb, but talking to it makes him feel like he has something on his side in this foreign land. Maybe even something – someone? – he can call a friend, an ally. He knows the stick is inanimate, but he had also felt that thrum of something almost alive and overwhelmingly powerful in his hand when he had cast that spell yesterday.

“ _Just you and me._ ”

Ed takes a deep breath. _Something simple._

“Wingardium Leviosa,” he says clearly, with a swish and flick.

Magic. It’s a foreign sensation to Ed, yet reminiscent of the crackle of electricity that accompanies his clapped hands, like the smell of ozone and the wash of energy of a lightning strike present with every act of alchemy he’s ever performed. The wood in his hand practically sings, an unearthly warmth surging from his own person to the wand.

And he watches as the rock he’s pointing it at rises steadily, floating about a meter off the ground before it drops, because he can barely contain his excited shout, two triumphant fists raised in the still night air.

Perhaps he’s not as alone as he’d feared.

* * * * *

Ed spends the rest of the late night/early morning ~~practicing~~ perfecting first- and second-year spells and wandwork, pushing his limits and throwing himself into his re-education. It’s grueling, but it’s exactly what he needs to distract himself from what awaits him in the future.

Like how he’s going to ~~kill~~ deal with Riddle. Like what is a Horcrux, because it’s apparently important and related to his target, but he doesn’t know, or isn’t allowed to know, anything more than that.

At least, as Truth had promised, he knows exactly where the Hallows are, even if that does little to help him obtain them. There’s a ring set with a certain stone buried under the rotting floorboards of an abandoned shack, there’s a wand made of elder wielded by _the_ Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, and there’s a cloak that makes its wearer invisible in the hands of one Harry Potter.

Ed had cursed Truth for fucking with him by imprisoning him in a _school_ of all things, but when he had realized that two of the three objects he was looking for were currently at Hogwarts, he had changed his tune to cursing Truth for making their desired toll fee near _impossible_ to get (and for implying he was _thirteen_ ).

Yes, Ed knows exactly where the Hallows are, but it’s not like he can just _ask_ Dumbledore to hand over his wand and _ask_ Potter if he’d give up his literal _invisibility cloak_. From what Ed understands, it’d be the equivalent of asking Colonel Bastard to give up his gloves. So, the direct approach is clearly not the way to go here, but Ed’s nothing if not resourceful; he’ll figure something out (he better).

When the practice pitch slowly develops shadows, that grow as the sun rises, Ed tucks his wand behind his ear as he would a pen and rushes back to the castle to shower before anyone notices.

The other boys are still sleeping, judging from the untouched state of the curtains surrounding the beds. That works out perfectly for Ed, who grabs a change of clothes (a near identical outfit, with the exception of a thicker black turtleneck sweater rather than another T-shirt) and strips in the bathroom.

He allows himself three minutes to stand underneath the burning shower, mind completely blank, before scrubbing his skin and washing his hair.

As soon as he’s clean and dressed, Ed exits the bathroom, only to run right into Ernie as he does so.

“Shit,” Ed leans over the other boy and extends his left hand, “You alright?”

“I’m, er, I’m fine,” Ernie replies, staring at Ed’s hand.

He raises an eyebrow. “Haven’t got all day.”

“Oh! Right, right, sorry,” Ernie says, grabbing Ed’s offered hand. “Thanks,” he says sheepishly.

Ed shrugs, then walks over to go through his trunk. He hears the click of the lock behind him.

Ernie isn’t the only roommate who’s woken up. Zach sits up, blinking blearily at Ed, before he collapses back onto his bed. Archie lets out a, “Five more minutes, mum,” and then proceeds to burrow himself into his blanket. The curtains around Elliot’s and Justin’s bed remain closed.

Ed grabs a leather-bound notebook and fountain pen from his trunk before leaving to go eat breakfast. He’s (always) starving.

When he arrives at the Great Hall, he finds the entire room empty.

“What the hell…” He pulls out his watch and checks the time. It’s nineteen minutes ‘til seven o’clock, meaning Ed has a little less than fifty minutes to wait before food is served.

He sits at the end of one of the tables and takes advantage of the solitude to begin jotting down his thoughts and considerations about his objective. He’s fairly sure his chicken scratch is enough to keep prying eyes from deciphering his shorthand, which Mustang had once equated to reading the future from the alignment of stars or from tea leaves: you have no fucking idea what is right in front of you, because it’s useless, so you do your absolute best to bullshit about what’s there. But he makes sure to write in Amestrian shorthand anyway, just to have an added layer of protection to the somewhat sensitive information he was made privy to.

He’s been scribbling furiously for what seems like an eternity, when his train of thought is interrupted.

“Wrong table, shrimp.”

“WHO THE FUCK IS A SHRIMP? WHO HERE IS SHORT, SHITHEAD? WANT TO SAY THAT ONE MORE TIME?” He’s standing before he thinks not to, and becomes ten times angrier upon discovering the boy who spoke towers over him. “I’M A PERFECTLY GOOD HEIGHT, FUCKWAD.”

The boy in question looks like he’s trying not to smile. He schools his face into something closer to boredom before he replies to Ed, but his eyes give him away; he’s delighted.

“You’re obviously not an average height for a thirteen-year-old,” he drawls. His amused tone makes Ed want to strangle the kid.

(Ed mostly wants to strangle Truth for sticking him in with kids _two years younger than him_.)

There are no other people in the hall, so Ed doesn’t bother to stop the flood of insults and profanity that the s-h-o-r-t comments evoke, but if anything, the boy seems entertained by the abuse easily and provokes Ed intentionally.

“BASTARD,” Ed finally snarls, slamming his fist against the table as he sits back down.

“It’s Blaise Zabini, actually,” the other boy responds, taking a seat across from Ed. “And I was attempting to let you know you’re at the wrong table, before everyone else comes in and notices.”

Blaise taps the green crest on the front of his robes with a smug smile and Ed realizes he isn’t sitting at the Hufflepuff tables like he is supposed to be. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but Ed can feel the tips of his ears heat up as he watches Blaise smirk.

“Fuck you, _bastard_ ,” Ed growls. He gathers his things and gets up from the table.

Blaise rolls his eyes. “No need to throw a temper tantrum, I was simply trying to help the lost child find his way back.” He snorts. “You’re really something, Elric. Never met a Hufflepuff who’d dare to even look in a Slytherin’s direction.”

Ed scowls. “What does me being a Hufflepuff have to do with anything?”

“Haven’t you heard? Hufflepuffs are notorious for being utterly boring, completely ordinary, afraid of their own shadows,” Blaise says. “You get the idea.”

“Fuck you, man, you haven’t ever met a Hufflepuff _like me._ ”

“Quite right. You’re the shortest Hogwarts student I’ve ever met.”

“BASTARD, I SWEAR-,”

“Not so loud,” Blaise scolds, a smile on the corners of his mouth.

Ed gives him a fierce look as he leans towards the other boy. “FUCK. YOU,” he yells.

Blaise smiles fully at that.

“You’re fucking unbearable,” Ed continues. “I refuse to be in your presence any longer, bastard.”

Blaise arches an eyebrow. “Yet here we are, squabbling like old lovers over the breakfast table.”

“We are not _squabbling_ ,” Ed squawks.

“Whatever tickles your fancy, dear.”

Ed lets out a yell of frustration before marching away from the Slytherin, who loses his composure watching the blonde mutter to himself as he leaves.

Once he settles down on the end of the correct row of tables, Ed goes back to scribbling in his notebook, just to have a reason to ignore Blaise, who he can feel glancing at him every so often. Eventually, other students begin to drag themselves into the room and the food magically appears as it did the night before.

Ed is in the middle of devouring a stack of pancakes and several sausages when a piece of parchment pops into existence in front of him and every other student currently eating breakfast.

It’s his schedule for the year, he notes, scanning the timetable with interest.

Double potions and charms on Monday, followed by History of Magic, Herbology, and Astronomy on Tuesday’s. There’s transfiguration and double Defense Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday’s and Ancient Runes and Care of Magical Creatures on Thursday’s. His Friday’s are free.

The Hogwarts schedule leaves Ed plenty of time to do research, plan the best way to take down the wizarding world’s most prominent villain, and avoid dying or being found out.

He finishes wolfing down the last of his pancakes and checks the time. Classes don’t start until nine, and it’s only 08:13.

 _Speaking of research, it’s time to check out the library_ , Ed thinks eagerly.

He’s gone in a flurry of black leather and braided hair.

* * * * *

From where he sits at the Slytherin table, Blaise Zabini eyes the (short) blonde figure as he rushes out of the room.

“Merlin’s pants, did you guys see that?!” Pansy Parkinson over-exaggerates her excitement, squealing and jumping in place as she mockingly covers her mouth with a perfectly manicured hand. When she has everyone’s attention, including Blaise’s, she drops the act. She smiles, showing all of her teeth. “Blaise was checking out the _new kid_.”

Draco Malfoy glances at Blaise, his mouth turned down in disapproval. “Really, Blaise? _The new kid?_ Are you that bored?”

Blaise returns Malfoy’s look coolly. “Fresh blood,” he says, affecting indifference.

“ _MUD_ blood,” Theodore Nott corrects, wrinkling his nose.

Blaise can’t really object to that assessment, given that the Elric kid hasn’t worn robes since the moment he arrived and he was using a Muggle quill. But he’s never been very close with Malfoy and his posse, doesn’t feel the need to talk to them and lingers at the edge of their social group only for appearance’s sake rather than for friendship. He isn’t about to tell them about his entertaining interaction with the boy earlier that morning; that was something just for him.

“Even mud has its uses,” he says instead. He takes a sip of his tea.

“It really doesn’t, mate,” Nott responds. “It only makes things dirty and it’s a pain-in-the-ass to clean.”

“Not very Slytherin to not make use of every- and anything,” Blaise says. He knows it will rile the other boy up, but he feigns innocence at the comment.

“Better than ogling a _Hufflepuff_ with _mud for blood_ ,” Nott grins smugly. Blaise ignores him in favor of finishing off his eggs.

Malfoy and his lackeys snicker, but Blaise couldn’t care less.

The opinions of six stuck-up thirteen-year-old’s hardly matter in the end and Blaise plays the long game.

* * * * *

At the same time that Blaise is insulted for even looking in Ed’s direction, Dumbledore also watches the transfer student race out of the Great Hall from his place at the front table.

“Minerva, did you happen to explain the expectations of dress at Hogwarts to young Mr. Elric?”

“Of course, I mentioned it, Albus, but the boy had claimed he hadn’t any robes with him and I could hardly question in him in front of the other first-years when he was already singled out. Or have you forgotten why he’s here?” McGonagall chides Dumbledore in a hushed tone.

All of the professors were informed of Edward Elric’s circumstances when they had received his application to transfer. The boy had been homeschooled prior to applying, but he had recently lost his only surviving parent to illness and had no other relatives to turn to and not enough money to sustain himself forever as his own legal guardian. With an incomplete education, it was unlikely that the boy would find paying work even if he were of age.

Orphans aren’t as common in the Wizarding World following Voldemort’s disappearance thirteen years prior, but Dumbledore isn’t one to deny entrance to Hogwarts, no matter how late a person is getting started. After all, everyone deserves the chance to learn.

So, yes, Dumbledore knows exactly how Edward Elric ended up at Hogwarts this year, but after observing the boy lash out at the Sorting Hat last night, he can’t help himself from wondering if Edward is hiding something. Something concerning.

He’d have to keep an eye on the boy, on top of waiting for any developments on Sirius Black.

“Thank you for the reminder, Minerva,” he replies, a twinkle in his eye.

Her face twitches, and he’s fairly certain she’s tamping down the urge to roll her eyes at his cheek.

He butters his bread and offers it to her.

“Toast?”

McGonagall returns to her own breakfast, a touch exasperated.

Dumbledore observes Harry from afar, considering the Elric boy as he does.

Would the addition of this unknown variable ruin years of planning? What role might this unexpected arrival fulfill in the impending battle between good and evil?

He takes a bite of his toast.

Time would tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth l o l
> 
> as always, thanks for reading my little story! :o)
> 
> i did update the tags a little bit; i put gen for now because i haven't planned any relationships but i'm kind of anticipating this to be pretty long, so if something happens, it happens. i also put OC because literally the only hufflepuff boys in canon that i could find are justin, ernie, and zacharias and i just needed more people.
> 
> writing this proved how little i actually remember about canon harry potter, and i figured since it was canon divergence anyways i could adjust little details to work better for my story (which is why harry and ron and hermione are all there for the sorting in third-year in the first chapter).
> 
> about ed's wand, i actually read through the information about wand woods and cores on "wizardingworld.com", and ended up choosing exactly the same combination that makes up voldemort's wand without realizing it because i kept thinking voldemort's wand was made from elder. whoops? i figured with only three wand cores it's possible that there at least a few other yew/phoenix feathers out there... but yeah i have my long-term reasons for picking the wood i did!
> 
> also i totally lied in my last chapter notes about being in "present" aka "fourth year" by chapter four, because I thought I could write all of third year into one chapter similar to the style of the first chapter but instead i did what i did and this chapter became absolutely monstrous and i decided not to cram all of third year into this chapter for my sanity l o l also hope you guys enjoyed this chapter even though a lot of it really had to be setting stuff up. i tried my best to exclude unnecessary descriptions of stuff but then started to wonder if i was leaving too many gaps??? if anything is "missing" and it bothers you, let me know honestly, because i just did whatever felt okay for now.
> 
> with that said, next up (over 2-3 chapters i'm estimating): ed meets madam pince, ed goes to class for the first time, ed meets the twins, ed meets luna, ED PUNCHES MALFOY, ed reads (a lot), ed goes to the hospital wing, basically, ed gets involved.
> 
> and thanks for reading to the end of the note! :o)


	4. edward elric and the moment you've all been waiting for (why did edward elric punch draco malfoy?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Minus four hundred for you, Edward Elric, you go, Edward Elric!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy friday the 13th ;o)

Ed loves books.

Books have been there for him when he didn’t know who else to turn to. They were there to start him off in alchemy. They were there to teach him how to treat Al’s scrapes and cuts when they were younger and Mom wasn’t around to do it anymore. They were there to help him research how he could restore Al’s body.

(They were there to plant the idea of human transmutation in his head, too.)

Books are the security blanket Ed never outgrew and they are exactly the false sense of security Ed would die (or kill) to have in a world completely unfamiliar.

But perhaps, not these ones.

He really should have known from the monstrosity that is the Care of Magical Creatures book that wizarding texts are a far cry from the lovingly cared-for pages of the books in normal society. The dusty tomes stacked meticulously in the wooden shelves of the Hogwarts library are arrogant, and Ed can’t explain how he knows that, seeing as these books are thankfully inanimate, but he swears that the spines of said books are looking down on him (even the ones on the bottom shelves).

The fact that he can feel their nonexistent eyes makes his skin prickle and he’s incredibly uneasy, in stark contrast to the typical rush of warmth he was anticipating.

When he had initially walked in, Ed had quietly greeted the woman who must have been the librarian and inquired about the layout of the library, as he normally would.

His first impression of the woman in question reminds him of Izumi Curtis in all ways but physical; basically, Ed would rather eat his automail than piss her off. He watches her frown at his lack of uniform, before she explains stiffly where he’d find which subject matter and what she expects in her library.

“Under no circumstances should you disrespect the books,” she says at the very end, a smile on her face that gives Ed flashbacks of Teacher, before she would deliver a bone-cracking punch.

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it,” he says, acting how he thinks Al might. Al always did get the tiniest amount of leeway with Teacher, although not by much.

She stares at him, still smiling deceptively, before giving him a nod and leaving him to his own devices.

And now he’s wandering the stacks, constantly looking over his shoulder, because if he didn’t know better, the books are watching his every move.

_What is going on?_

He stumbles upon a section of the library dedicated to alchemy and his heart skips a beat.

_Could it be…?_

Ed reaches out, but stops shy of pulling one of the books out.

The feeling that something is watching him, that the books are alive or something sinister will happen, buzzes against his fingertips. He’s reminded of his first attempt at magic, where the energy had felt almost alive.

_Maybe that’s what this is?_

He sits, cross-legged in front of the alchemy texts, and takes a breath.

“I’m Edward Elric,” he whispers, barely audible even in the stillness of the empty library. He would feel much more foolish if he hadn’t spent his entire morning talking to his dumb stick.

Ed has always been a person who talks to himself. He mumbles when working on arrays, he murmurs while he does research, he says what he wants to write as he writes things down. He even mutters in his sleep, according to Al, who also says that Ed is simply incapable of being quiet, that his thoughts are too loud, hence the constant noise. (Mustang and his team were quick to agree.)

“May I?” he asks, extending his hand again to the book he had tried to pull out of the shelf earlier.

There’s no resistance this time, no weird tingling sensation as he reaches for the book.

He takes it off the shelf.

He opens its pages with the utmost respect and immerses himself in its knowledge, in what it has to offer. 

_I really hope this is the last time I have to talk to inanimate objects_ , Ed thinks ruefully as he settles down. 

He doesn’t notice Madam Pince watching him from around the corner of the bookshelf. 

Irma Pince is surprised. 

And Irma Pince is rarely ever surprised anymore. 

She’d labeled the new third year as a delinquent the moment he had walked in, especially considering his little meltdown the night before _and_ his present attire. When he had feigned politeness, Madam Pince had seen the act for what it was: an act. 

She was certain he was only in the library to cause trouble unseen, as many others had attempted in the past. After she had given him the typical spiel about quiet in the library and treatment of the books, she had sent him off with every intention of trailing inconspicuously after him. 

She’d watched as he walked aimlessly from aisle to aisle, stopping to read certain titles, but never actually taking anything from the shelves. 

Then she’d watched as he sat himself down in front of the alchemy section and _asked permission_ to read the book. 

_How could he know about that?_

Wizarding books, perhaps best exemplified by the more temperamental, have something of a personality in them, despite being entirely inanimate. Madam Pince isn’t borderline murderous over the treatment of her books for nothing; even the most composed book has its limits. Generally speaking, the books tolerate the manhandling that students put them through, but if Madam Pince didn’t lay down the law, she wouldn’t be surprised if her books began rioting.

 _Perhaps I was too quick to judge_ , she thinks as she walks away. _It must be the homeschooling._

While Madam Pince is contemplating Ed’s behavior, Ed is struggling through the first three chapters of the book he had chosen at random. Struggling, not due to its difficulty, but rather due to its completely nonsensical approach.

Titled _The Secrets of Flamel_ , the book is composed of over 1,000 pages of flaming hot garbage. It’s clear to Ed that Mr. Nicholas Atkinson, the author, has never actually performed a transmutation in his life, because he touts “the transmutation of gold” as the end all be all of alchemy. Ed’s tempted to transmute the book in his hands to gold just to piss off Atkinson's ghost (or living spirit if he’s still kicking), but stops when he reminds himself the book might just try to kill him (he wouldn’t put it past it to try).

He spends a few minutes trying to see if Atkinson had simply written everything in an impossible code, but upon deciding that he's nothing but a hack, he puts the book aside and reaches for a different title: _Alchemy for Squibs_.

_Alchemy is an exact and ancient magic, once used by Muggles, yada, yada, yada, the ultimate goal: the Philosopher’s stone._

Now _that_ , Ed can get into. 

He eagerly flips to the section of the book that covers “Creation of the Stone” and is soon disappointed to learn that the (singular) Philosopher’s stone in this reality is also a well-guarded secret. 

_The only one in existence was made by Nicholas Flamel, who has used said stone to prolong his and his wife’s lives with the elixir of life. It is also assumed that Flamel has used the stone to fund his livelihood; namely, through the transmutation of gold._

_What the fuck is up with this obsession with gold?_ Ed wonders, putting the handbook aside.

Transmuting gold is literal child’s play: Ed was capable of performing such a feat within the first three months of learning alchemy, and he hadn’t even had instructions when he had done it. It’s something any _real_ alchemist should be capable of, if they actually understand the basics.

For the next few minutes, Ed flips (politely) through each book in the meager section and skims over the same, useless information that the books share: no one but Flamel knows how to create a Philosopher’s stone and it seems largely useless for what Ed hopes to accomplish. Elixir of life? Potentially useful, but transmutation of gold? Fucking pointless.

When he’s done leafing through every single book on alchemy that the library has to offer, Ed is mentally exhausted.

_So much for finding something useful._

* * * * *

The hallways leading down to the dungeons are dismal and depressing, because that is precisely what makes a dungeon _a dungeon_. The only thing out of place at the moment is the sound of panting interspersed with swearing as third-year Edward Elric runs to potions. 

He had lost track of time in the library, and had actually only remembered to leave for class when Madam Pince had discovered him surrounded by a mountain of books on wizarding alchemy and asked if his first period was free on Monday’s. He’s a little late because he had made sure to return each book to its proper place before speed walking out of the library.

Which is why he’s the last student to enter the potions classroom and he’s actually pretty lucky, because the potions professor sweeps in moments after Ed’s seated. From the look on his face, he’s exactly the type of person Ed would talk to with the crafted politeness he uses on self-important assholes he needs to keep happy.

Severus Snape doesn’t speak, just stands in front of a silent classroom, surveying them with folded arms, his black robes giving the impression that he’s one of those vampires from Winry’s cheesy romance books (and _obviously_ , there’s no particular reason Ed knows what a vampire from said book would look like).

_So, this is the asshole who gives Neville anxiety…_

Finally, the vampire speaks.

“I suppose I should welcome our newest addition… Mr. Elric.” His voice is laced with disdain.

 _What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?_ Ed has never spoken to the man, so he doesn’t think he’s actually done anything to warrant the hatred (and don’t get him wrong, he’s done plenty in his life to deserve hatred). He chooses not to respond, forcing himself instead to sit up straight and give Snape his attention. If he’s learned anything from handling the military brass (and if he’s learned anything from Mustang), sometimes it’s better to be underestimated.

He can feel everyone staring at him and he stomps down on the urge to stare back.

“And pray tell, Mr. Elric, why are you out of uniform?”

 _It’s just like being a State Alchemist_ Ed laughs internally. _Just substitute the Mr. for Major._

He’s going to be butting heads with every single professor over this, isn’t he?

“I’m afraid I don’t have any robes, sir.” He holds eye contact and can tell that something he said peaks Snape’s interest.

“I see. Ten points from Hufflepuff.”

Ed’s tempted to snort. House points mean (less than) nothing to him. He does, however, notice that the rest of the Hufflepuffs in the class shift unhappily in their seats; looks like Ed will not be popular here (when was he ever?).

“While I have your attention, I understand you received homeschool instruction prior to this year?”

“Yes, sir.”

Snape eyes him with distaste. Ed can only imagine what inane drivel is running through the man’s head, until he speaks again.

“Then can you tell me, Mr. Elric, a potion in which you would need the powdered root of Asphodel?”

“The Wiggenweld potion, sir.”

Nothing says “welcoming” like a test of one’s knowledge, most likely intended to humiliate. Ed’s always been one to disappoint though, so he already knows he won’t feign the ineptitude Snape is clearly trying to find. If the man hates him more for it, all the better.

“And what is the Wiggenweld potion used for?”

“It can be used to reverse the effects of a Sleeping Draught, but is also a strong healing potion for general injuries.”

Ed watches as Snape’s frown deepens and then chooses to continue barraging him with questions that would be difficult to answer, if Ed hadn’t had his basic knowledge padded with an entire encyclopedia the day before.

 _Severus Snape is a dick_ , he thinks spitefully, although he keeps his expression blank.

“What is Amortentia?” he says, seven minutes of questions later.

“It’s an incredibly potent love potion that creates strong obsession in those who take it.”

“Its features?”

“The pearly sheen and the steam that comes up in spirals.”

“And what does it smell like?”

“That’s a trick question, sir. Amortentia smells different to each person, based on what they would consider attractive.”

Snape finally pauses, peers at Ed with suspicious eyes, and then sniffs. 

“I suppose that’s acceptable.”

It’s the only thing he says acknowledging Ed’s performance before diving into the lesson, listing the materials and curriculum for the rest of the year, all in the same bored and arrogant tone of voice he had used to drill Ed.

“Today,” he says at the end of the monotonous lecture, lips pursed in displeasure, “You will be using the remaining hour to attempt brewing the Girding Potion, which increases a person’s endurance.”

Whispers and giggles erupt all over the classroom.

 _They really are thirteen_ , Ed grimaces.

This is going to be a long hour.

* * * * *

Neville was certain that he’d probably never talk to Ed again (or more importantly, Ed would never talk to him) after he had watched (with an unexpected amount of disappointment) as the boy had joined the Hufflepuff table following his Sorting.

He’d been surprised though, when the boy had given him a little wave before leaving the feast last night, an action entirely at odds with the earlier impression he had given everyone else. 

“You know him?” Harry had asked incredulously.

 _Just barely_.

Neville didn’t think much of it, seeing as Ed was a Hufflepuff and the definition of “too cool to be seen with Longbottom, let alone be his friend”.

So, it is needless to say that he is (non-magically) stunned in potions when Ed chooses to be his partner.

No one willingly pairs up with Neville anymore, because his concoctions are distinctly _not_ potions and are admittedly volatile no matter how well he follows the instructions. 

After Snape announces the corresponding page number for the “girding potion” to the third years, everyone immediately turns to their neighbor and begins dividing up tasks, except for Neville, who is avoided like the plague.

So, imagine his surprise when Ed, who has just revealed a level of potions knowledge on par with Hermione’s, drops into the seat next to him and asks, “Do you want to get ingredients or should I?”

“What?”

"Do you want to get ingredients or should I do it?"

"What?"

Ed stares at Neville with a furrow in his brow. “Ingredients,” he says slowly. Then he gestures between the two of them. “Me or you?”

“Uh, me?” Neville says, unsure if he’s dreaming.

“Then I’ll heat up the cauldron.” Ed gets busy setting up the proper arrangement of wood for the fire, as Neville lurches from his seat. He's two steps from the table when he turns back.

“Hey, Ed?” 

“Yeah, what?”

“Did you know I’m notorious for creating explosions in this class?”

Ed stops rearranging firewood and glances up at him. “Is that why no one’s sitting here?”

“I mean, yeah, why do you think?”

Ed snorts: “Then don’t disappoint me, Neville, I’m looking forward to it.” He goes back to kindling the fire.

Neville walks off in a daze towards the supply closet, while Ed fights the urge to snarl at every single person who is staring at him from behind. It’s making the back of his neck prickle.

(He’s going to have to get used to the whispering and the staring, because it’s been pretty much nonstop since the night before.)

By the time Neville returns with an armful of odd plants and dried animals, Ed had already read the instructions and memorized them.

“Great, thanks,” he says as the other boy sets down their ingredients.

Neville makes a small noise and Ed glances at him. He’s staring at Ed, who’s one pair of eyes away from losing his shit in his first class on his first day. “What?” It comes out a bit harsher than he intends it to.

“Thanks. I mean it,” Neville says, his look of awe melting into a wide grin.

Ed rolls his eyes. “Don’t thank me and just get to work, idiot.”

“Er, what should I do?”

“Read the directions first. I already did, so I’ll get started on the potion.”

By the time the class is over, Snape walks by handing out grades with a sneer, naturally. When he gets to Ed and Neville’s table, he raises an eyebrow.

“An unlikely partnership, I see.”

Ed stands at attention, and as much as he’d like to knock Snape’s lights out, he knows that would be the worst possible thing to do at this moment.

As Snape peers into their cauldron, he does so cautiously, as if he’s afraid of the contents.

_Neville really wasn’t kidding when he mentioned explosives._

“I’m surprised you were capable of making something even resembling a potion, Longbottom, but I suppose your new partner can take credit for that.” He sneers. “O.” Then he moves on without another word or glance in their direction.

(Ed knows about the beyond-ridiculous grading scale Hogwarts has adopted and he’s not surprised by the results. Making potions is basically chemistry with fucked-up ingredients, and chemistry, Ed can do.)

He relaxes as soon as the man is gone and starts to clear up the mess by hand, until he realizes Neville is hyperventilating next to him.

“What’s wrong?”

He’s breathing rapidly, his eyes wide and his mouth open in a look of surprise.

“I’ve _literally_ never gotten anything better than a P my entire potions career,” he says.

“Maybe potions isn’t the right career for you,” Ed deadpans, continuing to clean.

Neville scowls, but his eyes light up good-naturedly. He vanishes the rubbish that Ed has swept into a small pile. “Maybe being a wizard isn’t yours,” he says, only a hint of uncertainty in his words.

Ed stares at Neville, who starts to shift uneasily when the other boy doesn’t respond. But then Ed snorts again and Neville breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Glad you didn’t forget what I said on the train,” Ed says, now using his wand to empty the contents of their cauldron. “I like you better when you’re balls-y.”

Neville laughs.

* * * * *

The rest of classes and the rest of the week pass without issue. Ed likes Filius Flitwick, who’s even shorter than him, but apparently a master dueler nonetheless, and he likes Remus Lupin, who he imagines is a bit of a smart-ass underneath his professor facade (at least, that’s what the amused grins indicate). Hagrid is the definition of a gentle giant and Ed thinks his hands-on teaching style best fits how Ed grew up learning.

Professor McGonagall, on the other hand, may be the only teacher in the entirety of Hogwarts Ed refers to as “Professor” without internally rolling his eyes, because the woman is _scary_. But not scary enough to make him endure Transfiguration. When he had first read through the textbook, he had gripped the pages so tightly he’d actually torn his own copy. When he had watched McGonagall transmute herself into a cat and back, he’d almost vomited right then and there - it was like Nina all over again, too much illegal, immoral alchemy in the span of a few days. 

So, he stands up in the first lesson and announces his intentions to purposefully fail this class, because it’s too close to home. He gets detention for the foreseeable future with McGonagall, who tries to pry into his reasons for hating transfiguration, but he never gives up his secrets. 

(He’s lost the most House points from her.)

Ed plays the part of a good ~~soldier~~ student in front of professors and acts as if he’s ashamed of his lack of “proper attire” when called out on it, but makes no moves to fix the problem. He’s lost Hufflepuff a record 300 points in the first five days of the term and if he hadn’t left a lasting impression during the Sorting, he’s certain the other students would have approached him about it by now, if not earlier.

He is decidedly not friendly to his dorm-mates, but also doesn’t go out of his way to antagonize them. They mostly avoid one another, which is necessity on Ed’s part, as he’s still hiding his automail, and with Ed slipping out of the dorm each morning before the sun even rises, it’s not much of an issue. (He isn’t getting enough sleep, but he isn't expecting to.) He trains each morning, both physically and magically, but there is one thing he hasn’t been practicing.

Ed hasn’t performed alchemy in over a week and it’s setting him on edge, making him irritable in ways he didn’t realize was possible (or maybe that was the exhaustion talking); he’s never gone so long without it. Next to Al, alchemy is his closest companion and technically, his first love (and his first heartbreak). 

He hasn’t had time to double-check that Truth hadn’t lied to him, that his ability to transmute objects is still intact underneath all these new layers of magic, because he’s been struggling to adjust to the strict schedule that Hogwarts imposes on him. He’s been a State Alchemist for three years: taking orders, ironically, does not sit well with him. 

It doesn’t help that everyone actually thinks he’s thirteen (some of them even think he’s younger), because it makes a large majority of both students and teachers feel entitled to ordering him about like he doesn’t understand a thing. It’s taking all of his mental energy to not snap at professors and to stay cordial with fellow students. He overhears people whispering about his “attitude”, which tells him he’s not as successful as he thinks he is, but more than anything, he finds it funny: if they think he’s “terrifying” now, what will these kids think of him when he’s actually pissed?

Regardless, Ed’s not here to make friends: Ed’s here to kick ass. And even though he’s figured out he’s doing fairly well in the magic department, all things considered, he’s absolutely got the advantage in terms of trump cards. Based on the entirety of the abysmal selection of alchemy texts in the library, wizarding alchemy amounts to what Ed would consider party tricks. In fact, a startling majority of wizarding alchemy is obsessed with turning shit into gold and it leaves Ed dumbfounded that these people, who can literally teleport according to some basic magic books, are incapable of performing anything beyond simple metal-to-metal transmutations. And even that requires an extensive amount of training, apparently.

So, Ed has a trump card.

That is, if Truth holds up their end of the deal.

On the first Sunday of the school year, when the weather is a bit too chilly to sit outside, Ed steals several lumps of coal from the fireplace in the common room and settles down at the edge of the lake.

 _Gold should do it,_ Ed thinks as he claps his hands together. 

(He could, by all means, perform any number of transmutations including pulling a dagger from his arm, but turning things to gold is _the_ party trick here, so why not.)

The instance he feels the familiar crackle of electricity, he relaxes into its embrace and presses his palms against the hunks of coal in front of him. 

“ _Party trick_ ,” Ed huffs, but he’s pleased to see the gold he’d transmuted glitter as it should.

“ **Bloody hell.** ”

Ed spins around, his pulse in his ears, as he confronts the spy. 

There are two of them and he’s not sure when they got there. They certainly weren’t around when Ed had double-checked he was alone before performing alchemy, but maybe they pulled some magic crap and Ed had missed it. He squints for a moment, because he _swears_ they look like carbon-copies of one another. Moreover, they look a lot like that Weasley kid from Potions.

“Mate, you’ve gotta show us how you did that,” Fred Weasley says, stepping towards him. George Weasley follows, nodding in agreement.

“We could definitely use the gold,” he says, eyeing the lumps in front of Ed. “Imagine what we could buy.”

“Imagine what we could _do_ ,” Fred insists.

“We could get Mum that new cauldron she’s been raving about.”

“Or we could officially start our business venture!”

“Right, we’d have the money without any investors.”

“Which means we wouldn’t need to pander to those idiots.”

The twins grin at one another and high-five, while Ed is frantically trying to piece together an excuse for what they had seen transpire moments before. He pockets the gold, the twins watching him as he does, and gets up, brushing the seat of his pants.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ed decides to play it dumb; they don’t have proof and he’s nothing if not stubborn.

George rolls his eyes with a friendly smile while Fred reaches out and rests his elbow against Ed’s head. Ed, in turn, scowls and slaps Fred’s arm away. (Fuck, why were all of the kids in this reality _t-a-l-l-e-r_ than him!)

“You know exactly what we’re talking about,” Fred says.

“The magic you just did,” George clarifies.

“The _outrageous_ magic you just did.”

“The outrageous _wandless_ magic you just did.”

“The outrageous wandless magic you just did that made _gold out of_ _nothing_.”

Ed can’t stop his eye from twitching at the twins’ antics. It’s not like they are capable of annoying him into admitting the secrets of alchemy; he has better self-control than that.

“Who would have thought, Forge, that the new kid has some tricks up his sleeve!” George says.

Fred claps a hand to his cheek in mock-surprise. “He’s probably a serial killer with that attitude, Gred, but then again, I’ve never seen a serial killer quite so short.” 

He then attempts to ruffle Ed’s hair as if he were a very small, very adorable child and Ed takes it back, he does _not_ have enough self-control for this. He loses it.

“WHO THE FUCK IS SHORT!” he yells, grabbing Fred’s hand and twisting his arm behind his back. 

“Hey!” George shouts, trying to pry Ed off his brother.

Fred lets out a yelp of pain. “Ow, ow, ow, what are you doing!”

“I AM NOT FUCKING SHORT, YOU STRETCHED OUT PIECE OF TAFFY, TELL ME, WHO EXACTLY IS SO SHORT YOU COULD STEP ON THEM WITH YOUR SHOE!”

“He didn’t say that! Let go, you maniac!” George tugs at Ed’s grip, incensed to discover the shocking amount of strength the third-year is capable of.

Ed squeezes Fred’s arm one last time and releases him. George rushes to check on his brother. “Are you mad?” he says incredulously, helping Fred up off the ground. “It was clearly a joke!”

“The wrong joke can get you killed,” Ed fumes. “Consider it a life lesson, assholes, free of charge. You’re welcome.”

He stalks off without another word.

“You okay, Freddie?” George asks, checking him for injuries.

“I’m better than okay,” Fred replies. He’s watching Ed’s retreating figure with a horribly familiar gleam in his eye. 

George groans. “No. Absolutely not, no way, _never_.”

“Oh, come on! Have you ever had so much fun?”

“Fun?! He tried to break your arm over a stupid joke! He’s _mental_!”

“He absolutely is, and it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us! The mouth on that kid would make Mum rip her hair out!”

George shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything when you wanted to stalk -”

“Hey!”

“- the new kid all weekend, but this was enough to tell me we should _keep our distance,_ NOT befriend him!”

Fred grabs his brother by the shoulders and shakes him. “You heard what Neville said! I’m sure he’s completely soft on the inside.”

George doesn’t resist Fred’s grasp and he sighs tiredly. “Does it really have to be him?”

“Do you really need to ask?”

“No,” George says. “Unfortunately, I don’t.”

Fred wraps George in a bone-crushing hug. “You’re the best.”

“I know I am,” he says, as he hugs back.

When they break apart, Fred throws an arm over George’s shoulders as they head back to the castle.

“So,” he says, a playful smile on his face, “How should we terrorize the new kid?”

* * * * *

There is one other Neville-like entity that Ed notices in his second week of school.

“Neville-like” in the way Ed can see others bothering her and her taking it without complaint.

“Entity” because the girl doesn’t seem human in the same way Al doesn’t seem like a young boy when he’s seven feet of steel.

Her name is Luna, he finds out, Luna Lovegood. She’s three years younger than him and she’s in Ravenclaw. And if he’s telling the truth, he finds out in one of the most embarrassing moments of his life.

Luna is regularly the target of cruel tricks and crueler words. Other students, not limited to those in her House, steal her belongings and hide her shoes and suggest places where her sanity could be found.

“Where are those ‘crunkle-horned-snorbacks’ you always talk about,” one boy yells.

“She’s barefoot!” someone else laughs.

“That’s a … cute necklace,” a girl says, eyeing Luna’s cork necklace with a smirk.

Ed only begins to observe how people would whisper about her when she’s in the vicinity (if they’re not preoccupied whispering about him) and how people would treat her to her face during his second week of school, because the first week, he really was too preoccupied with reading his way through his textbooks and the library to notice that this girl was pretty much being tormented by the rest of the student body, which doesn’t sit well with Ed at all.

More than anything, he’s beyond annoyed at the callousness of teenagers. Ed’s come to expect it of adults, or at least from ranked military officers who sit on their high horses and bark orders without concern for those “beneath” them. He didn’t expect it of students, of children who technically grew up together.

However, he is interested in how Luna doesn’t let their insults and childish behavior bring her down. She never responds and never lashes out against the rude words and stupid tricks. Luna stays firm in her odd beliefs and kind in the face of cruelty. Ed respects the strength of her will, but he’s not going to let a twelve-year-old get picked on, especially if _no one_ , including professors, is going to step in on her behalf.

Which is how Ed finds himself seated at the Ravenclaw table his second Wednesday at Hogwarts.

It’s morning and he’s about to dig into a mountain of pancakes when he notices Luna avoiding bits of food as she reads from some magazine.

He easily abandons his own breakfast to sit down on the bench next to her and slam his hand against the table, rattling all of the cutlery and glasses in a six-person radius. The four girls who had been throwing the food to begin with stop immediately and stare at him with confused and frightened eyes.

“Problem?” he snarls, in no mood to feign friendliness, but holding himself back from a thinly-veiled (read: not-at-all veiled) threat. They pale considerably and don’t bother with a response, focusing intently on the plates sitting in front of them.

“Thought so,” Ed grumbles, recreating his abandoned tower of precariously stacked pancakes. 

Luna is very, very still next to him. She doesn’t look up from her magazine and Ed doesn’t mind, because he is horrible at small talk and the girl probably isn’t keen on talking to him based on the rumors that are somehow constantly spreading about him.

The whispering around him ramps up, which Ed didn’t plan on, but is also too tired to give a shit about. He’s constantly being watched and it’s making life difficult, even though he should be used to it as the Fullmetal Alchemist. 

But here, at Hogwarts, in this universe, he is supposed to be _just_ Edward Elric; he didn’t think being himself would attract as much attention as it did.

He eats absentmindedly, his grip on his fork a tiny bit harder than it should be. It bends in his hand.

_Shit. At least no one noticed._

He should really be more careful when holding things with his automail, especially when he thinks a little too much about his current predicament.

_Get a hold of yourself, Fullmetal._

“Fullmetal,” Luna says. She’s no longer reading her magazine and has angled her body to give him her full attention.

_Did she just say Fullmetal?_

“What. What the fuck?”

She blinks at him, the owlish movement emphasized by how large her eyes are in comparison to the rest of her face.

“You’re thinking too loud.”

“Are you suggesting you can _hear_ me think?” He frowns.

“No.” She turns back to her magazine.

“How did you do that,” Ed demands. His mind is racing. No one knows that name here, no one knows alchemy here, no one knows Ed here.

“Do what?” 

“How did you read my mind?”

“I didn’t,” she says. “You think too loud.”

He scowls at her, but immediately falters, because Luna’s response to his usual defense mechanisms is to smile softly, only the corners of her lips curving upwards.

“What?” he asks. “What’s wrong with my face?”

“There’s nothing wrong with your face, you’ve grown into it quite nicely,” she says offhandedly.

“You’re smiling at it, though.” Even his friends don’t smile at his near-constant glower. (They obviously stick around for his dazzling personality.)

“You’re a prickly pear,” she responds, as if that’s an actual reason for what had just transpired.

(And this is where Ed wants to shoot himself in the foot.)

“Whatever you say, Loony.”

She turns, slowly, and scrutinizes his face; he feels exposed and bare under her gaze.

_Did I say something wrong?_

“I suppose if it’s you, I don’t mind.”

He’s completely lost. “Don’t mind what?”

Luna packs away her belongings and grabs an apple from one of the many bowls on the table as she gets up.

“Luna,” she says, a teasing lilt to her voice. “My name is Luna.”

“I thought your name was Loony?”

She laughs, the sound like the jangle of tiny bells.

“Loony means ‘mad’, like ‘loony bin’,” she says. “It’s what the others call me.”

Ed blanches and then his entire face colors. “Oh, fuck. Sorry, Luna. _Luna._ Fucking shit.”

She laughs again, her long hair shaking as she does.

“We’re even, Fullmetal.”

Luna walks away with a smile and a wiggle of her fingers and Ed’s left alone at a table he doesn’t belong at, hoping no one nearby overheard their conversation just now. He lets his head fall down onto the table and mutters to himself as the rest of the Ravenclaws eye his intrusion warily.

He had only ever heard the other kids call her Loony in passing and had thought it was just another one of those weird wizard names. 

“ _That was mortifying_ ,” Ed mumbles.

In the end, she hadn’t explained how she knew about his title. He’s guessing it’s some form of magic, but the girl is literally twelve, so he feels it’s pretty unfair that she has intel on him that shouldn’t be possible to access. Unless she was in his head. Which would mean she had seen far more than just his title.

Fuck, Ed has more research to do. A lot more research.

* * * * *

Fred and George follow Ed around in their free time after the Sunday showdown and are disappointed to discover that Ed doesn’t do much outside of class, other than speed-read every available book in the library and brood like the goth he definitely is.

They also spend a decent amount of time spreading rumors about the boy’s gloves, settling on the idea that he had a “golden touch”. (And they have quite a laugh over that, don’t they?)

But other than amusing themselves from afar, like with the now widely-spread rumors, half of the Weasley twins is losing his patience with the new kid.

“This is boring,” George whispers. “He’s a nerd with a short temper. Let’s move on.”

“C’mon, Georgie, you know he’s more than that.”

“C’mon, Freddie, you know he’s not.”

Fred pouts and George rolls his eyes. They’re sitting in a far corner of the library, away from Madam Pince and Ed’s eyes and ears, for the eleventh time _that week_. Who even reads this much? (Hermione, clearly, but she’s been mental since she arrived.) 

George is still on the fence regarding Ed, but he’s not going to argue with Fred again when he’s dead set on befriending the tosser. They bicker, because it’s unavoidable and a normal aspect of their relationship, but George doesn’t want to fight, and that makes the difference.

He groans softly. “I thought the kid was in Hufflepuff. Why is he torturing himself like this? Why is he torturing us like this?”

“Maybe it’s a habit from homeschool?”

“Maybe you two should get a hobby,” someone whispers. The twins nearly jump out of their own skins as they turn to face Ed, who’s glowering at them. 

“Follow me,” he says quietly, heading towards the library door, “or die a slow, horrible death by Madam Pince. Your choice.”

Well, that isn’t ominous at all.

The three of them make their way to the exit. Madam Pince watches them approach with suspicion, but her expression softens minutely when she spies Ed leading their little group out. He gives her a polite nod and she returns it.

 _What the hell was that,_ Fred thinks. He looks over at George, who’s clearly thinking the same thing. George shrugs.

Ed is carrying four books under each arm, so he waits for Fred to open the door for him. 

“Thanks,” he says begrudgingly.

He only stops walking once he’s reached one of those stone benches pushed up against the walls. Ed sets down his books and then spins around to face his shadows.

“What the fuck is up with you two? Why’re you following me?” Ed barks. He stabs a finger against George’s chest.

“Look, mate, you seem like you’re having a hard time making friends -” Fred starts.

“Go figure,” George mutters.

“- but we’d be interested in helping you out.”

Ed stares at them blankly. “I don’t even know you.”

“I’m Fred!”

He elbows his brother in the ribs.

“… I’m George.”

“And now we know each other!” Fred is practically vibrating with excitement, while George’s resentment is palpable.

“Who says I want to be friends?” Ed crosses his arms.

“I do,” Fred beams at him. “Let’s be friends, Elric.”

“No, thanks.”

"It could be fun!" Fred insists.

"You two are the ones who spread that 'everything he touches turns to gold' bullshit, aren't you?" He doesn't even wait for an answer, just picks up his books and stalks off in the direction of the Hufflepuff dormitory.

“Great, let’s give up,” George says happily.

“Never,” Fred says.

“He doesn’t want to be friends, so let’s leave him be.”

“No.”

“Kill me,” George says, raising his arms in frustration.

“Also no.”

“ _Fred_.”

“ _George_.”

They look at each other in exasperation.

“This better not be because you want to shag him.”

“Slander!”

* * * * *

Ed punches Malfoy in Defense Against the Dark Arts, in front of a professor.

Granted, the professor is Lupin and he’s the best Defense Against the Dark Arts Hogwarts has had in the three years since Harry Potter began his schooling. He’s intelligent, he’s kind, and he’s somehow cool, despite dressing like an elderly Muggle professor, elbow patches and all.

Their lessons in DADA are actually interesting and informative for once, especially after the shitshow that had been Gilderoy Lockheart last year, but things fall apart the day Lupin introduces the third-years to boggarts.

Boggarts, which happen to manifest themselves as a person’s worst fear.

Third-years, which includes Ed, who’s not really sure if his worst fear is even possible to represent in physical form.

After Lupin explains the logistics of the spell he'd like them to use, he explains he will allow everyone sufficient time to confront their fears and only step in if he deems the situation to be too dangerous.

“Boggarts are much weaker magically and physically than the things they imitate,” he reassures them. “This is an excellent opportunity to face your fears.”

Neville’s boggart takes the shape of Severus Snape and Ed wants to punch the real Snape in the face all the more for it. He feels a swell of pride when he watches Neville dress the boggart in an old woman’s clothes on his first try and it wrinkles Snape’s face into a look of embarrassment. (Neville doesn’t even stutter.)

Ravenclaw Padma Patil is afraid of spiders, as are a number of other students.

Slytherin Draco Malfoy is afraid of his father’s disapproval.

His dorm mate Elliot is afraid of confined spaces.

Ed is in line three places behind Harry Potter and the closer he gets to the front, the worse he feels. The dread pooling in his stomach makes him physically ill.

Everyone is curious what Harry’s boggart will take the shape of, with a few of them afraid they’ll find themselves face to face with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

It’s not Voldemort.

It’s a dementor, mottled grey skin and knobby hands reaching out as if to grab Harry by the throat. 

When it’s clear that Harry is incapacitated at the sight of a dementor, Lupin interferes and the boggart quickly turns into an enormous glowing orb.

 _Weird_ , Ed thinks, but mostly he’s grateful, because he’s certain he won’t have to face the boggart anymore, considering that Harry is sitting on the floor in shock.

Once the whole fiasco is resolved and Harry’s assured everyone that he’s perfectly fine, Lupin insists everyone have a chance to confront the boggart, “for the sake of education”.

Two people later, Ed stands stiffly in front of the thing, which is still lingering in its previous shape; a wriggling mass of rats that the girl before him had spelled into a pile of puppies.

Nothing happens at first, and he sags with relief, hoping that he just got lucky.

(But Ed’s never been lucky.)

The puppies disappear and the entirety of the classroom turns into an empty, white expanse.

He takes an uneasy step back. 

“ _Did you miss me that much,_ **_little alchemist_** _?_ ”

There’s the same laugh that haunts the nightmares, the ones where he wakes up near tears.

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Ed snarls, lifting his wand. _It’s not real. Focus, Fullmetal_.

The figure that appears before him is not Truth as he’d last seen them.

It’s Al. It’s Al as he would be at fourteen with blonde hair and round eyes and arms and legs and a real body. But the wide grin, the almost animal look of it stretched across Al’s face, is all Truth.

“ ** _Brother_** _, it’s so easy, just say the word, and I’ll be gone._ ”

It’s Al’s voice too.

He doesn’t move. He can’t move.

Truth is right in front of him, the grin sharp. Al’s eyes look down on him and there is no kindness in them.

_This isn’t Al. This isn’t Al!_

They splay Al’s hand flat against his chest.

“ _He died crying for you, you know. Begging you to find him._ ”

Ed can’t hear, he can’t breathe, he can’t think.

“ _Al,_ ” he whispers. 

“ _Why didn’t you come,_ **_Brother_** _?_ ” 

Al’s voice distorts as his body becomes deformed, the soft tissue melting off to reveal bone. On the white expanse of the floor, a familiar circle draws itself out in blood, what’s left of Al in the middle of it all.

“ _You’ll bring me back,_ **_Brother_** _, won’t you?_ ”

His wand clatters to the floor.

_The blackened sludge that was supposed to be their mother wheezes between teeth exposed by a lipless mouth. The eyes unblinking, shiny black like beetles._

His ports gnaw at his flesh, the pain unbearable and blinding.

“RIDDIKULUS!”

Al’s rearranged corpse disappears, the transmutation circle fades, the whiteness recedes, and Ed is on his hands and knees, gasping for breath in a classroom full of children who watch him warily.

“Are you alright, Edward?” Lupin is careful not to touch him, but crouches so that his feet are in Ed’s peripheral vision.

“ _I_ _’m fine._ ”

Lupin’s brow furrows. “Come again?”

Ed controls his breathing. “I’m fine. Sorry, sir.”

“Nothing to apologize for, Edward. Are you sure you’re alright?”

He eases himself onto his knees, avoiding Lupin’s extended hand. “I’m sure. I’m fine, sir.” 

He stands, discarded wand in hand, willing his legs to stop shaking. His ports are throbbing so badly he has to limp, but he tries to move as discreetly as possible.

The other students in class are buzzing with restless energy, no doubt another rumor in the works.

“Did you see that!?”

“And I thought Potter would have the scariest boggart, hands down.”

“What language was that?”

“No wonder he associates with Longbottom. He’s off his rocker, just like Longbottom’s parents,” Malfoy says in a low voice to his entourage, snickering as he does.

Malfoy doesn’t even have time to cry for help as Ed’s right hand grips the front of his robes.

“You’re right,” Ed says. “I’m fucking insane.”

With that, Ed’s clenched left hand collides with the side of Malfoy’s face and Malfoy yelps. He clutches his right eye with a trembling hand.

He whimpers under Ed’s glare and he winces when Ed leans forward.

“Say shit about Neville again and I’ll punch with my right,” he says softly, directly into Malfoy’s ear. He lets go of his robes and Malfoy lands on his ass.

He immediately gets detention with Lupin for the next three months (on top of the detentions he already has with McGonagall) and he loses Hufflepuff another hundred points in one go (reaching a grand total of 400, probably a record), but from the murderous gleam in his eye and the angry line of his mouth directly following the incident, no one is willing to antagonize him over the punch. Most of them think that Malfoy probably deserves it, prick that he normally is, and many actually feel vindicated by Ed’s actions.

“The guy is barking mad,” Ron says in awe. “He’s terrifying, really, but I’d eat a broom to watch him punch Malfoy again.”

Ed’s first encounter with Malfoy becomes the latest hot gossip at Hogwarts and he quickly learns that the rest of the students think he’s some kind of gangster and associate his gloves and long sleeves with tattoos identifying him as such. 

_If it keeps them from trying to look at my automail, who cares._

The amount of people who want to talk to him decreases significantly. His dorm mates can’t even look him in the eyes anymore and Justin becomes that much more unbearable to be around, so Ed does his best to stay out of the room as much as possible, slipping in late at night to sleep for a few hours and leaving well before the sun rises. 

He had originally been planning to steer clear of Luna as well, even though he’d been eating every meal by her side before the punch had happened, but that plan is thrown out when she gives him a Look. Are twelve-year-olds really supposed to be this intuitive?

“Fullmetal,” she says softly with a smile when he slides into the seat next to hers.

“Loony,” he says fondly, although he doesn’t smile. His eyes travel over the others eating in the Great Hall, everyone avoiding his gaze, but staring when they think he doesn’t notice.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. She always knows what to say.

Ed had accepted after the fourth meal he’d shared with Luna that she simply understood things that others didn’t and she could read people the way Ed reads books, like she consumed them. 

He lets her call him Fullmetal, and she does so warmly, kindly, which is not how it’s normally used, but Ed finds he doesn’t mind it. She likes it when he calls her Loony, because "it takes power away from those that use it to hurt me". And he keeps eating and chatting with her at mealtimes, even if it does cause others to give Luna a wide berth.

(She insists he not worry about it each time.)

Things with Luna are fine, but Ed also goes out of his way to not cause problems for Neville, who he had been on relatively good terms with prior to the boggart lesson.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Neville confronts him a week later, in the library. It’s been seven days of Ed barely speaking to him, doing the entirety of their potions assignments in silence and leaving as soon as Snape grades their final submission. Ed is also plainly trying not to prolong any conversation they do have and he’s abnormally gruff. He won’t discuss herbology with him either.

“We can’t talk in here unless you want to piss Irma off,” Ed whispers back. He’s nearly finished with the unrestricted section of the Hogwarts library, since he basically started living here after the initial outbreak of the rumors; he’s currently working his way through the books on advanced divination, which he thinks is a load of bullshit, but that’s not stopping him from reading it in the first place.

“Irma?” Neville repeats, a bit too loud.

“No talking in the library!” Madam Pince approaches Ed’s table with an expression that promises certain death. Naturally, the two of them get kicked out, although Madam Pince seems more upset with Neville than Ed.

“Told you,” Ed says in front of the library door. He had managed to bring two books along with him.

“Why are you avoiding me?” Neville repeats. He chases after Ed, who had started walking away.

“I’m not,” Ed replies. He doesn’t stop to wait for Neville.

Neville scowls and grabs Ed by the arm. “Don’t lie to me.”

Ed stills, because Neville is digging his nails into his right arm. (His automail arm.)

“I’m not lying. I just didn’t want to give you a shitty reputation from me hanging around. Haven’t you heard? I’m a gang member, apparently.” He snorts. The rumor mill at Hogwarts really lacks imagination.

Neville allows Ed to gently pull his arm out of his grip. His face contorts.

“Do you think so little of me that you think those stupid rumors would bother me?”

Ed looks at the hurt expression on Neville’s face and is taken aback.

“Of course not, I just don’t want to cause you any problems.”

“Is this about what Malfoy said?”

“… so you did hear that.”

This time, Neville snorts. “It wouldn’t be the first time Malfoy said something shitty to me.”

“Watch your fucking language,” Ed says in all seriousness.

Neville rolls his eyes, but then somberly asks, “Do you know about my parents?”

Ed shifts his weight, ill at ease. Parents are a touchy subject for him, so he’d know better than most how awful this could be to talk about.

“No. But you’ve never mentioned them, so I’d guessed something happened to them.”

He’s only ever heard Neville talk about his extended family, particularly his grandmother, whom he lives with.

“They’re not dead,” Neville says, but he stops and struggles as he tries to continue. “They’re, erm, I mean, they’re, they’re -”

“You don’t need to tell me, Neville. I appreciate the thought.” Ed watches the tension in Neville’s shoulders bleed away. “I won’t avoid you anymore, thanks for kicking my ass about it.”

Neville smiles and he lights up like a child on Christmas as he starts prodding him to share his opinions on their ongoing herbology project. It makes Ed regret his actions; he should have had better faith in his friends.

And isn’t it surprising who considers him their friend.

He knows Neville is his friend because he’s not afraid to give Ed shit and he knows Luna likes him enough to consider him a friend, even if they don’t talk as often.

But the day after the punch, Blaise, the arrogant bastard he’d run into his first morning at Hogwarts, catches him in the hallway and smirks. 

“Loved your work on Malfoy’s face, dear. It was quite the improvement.” 

He leaves Ed standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hallway.

It’s a brief interaction, but _no one_ talks to Ed willingly, and from what Ed’s seen, Blaise doesn’t talk to _anyone_ willingly, so it must mean something. Right?

And then there are the twins.

Ed knows they’re creeping on him in their free time, even after he expressed his lack of interest in friendship, but he leaves them be, because he’s not going to give in just because they’re stubborn.

But a few days after the boggart issue, George pulls back the chair to Ed’s left at his usual table in the library and sits down.

“Literally how many times are people going to try to talk to me in the library, the worst fucking place to have a conversation,” Ed mutters. He gets up and raises an eyebrow when he realizes George is alone. “Where’s Fred?”

“I’m Fred,” George says.

“No, you're not.”

Then Ed picks up the stack of books on the table and starts wandering the library, putting them back in their proper places. George trails after him quietly, earning a suspicious frown from Madam Pince.

It’s only because the library is so silent that George overhears the quiet encouragements and words of thanks the perpetually grumpy Hufflepuff gives to the books as he returns them to the shelves. The juxtaposition of Ed’s black leather and tough glare with his almost reverent tone is jarring.

 _That’s… surprisingly cute_ , George admits to himself reluctantly. He quickly shakes the thought from his mind.

When Ed is finished shelving, he returns to the table, grabs his one notebook and heads for the door.

“Thank you, Irma, I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 _Merlin’s pants, did he just call Madam Pince_ Irma _?!_

Madam Pince smiles ever so slightly, only the corners of her mouth curving up. “Good night, Edward.” She glares at George, eyes hard. “Mr. Weasley.”

When they’re both outside of the library doors, Ed turns to George. 

“So, where’s Fred?”

“I _am_ Fred!” George insists. He doesn’t want to admit he had sought him out when he had made it clear he didn’t like the kid.

“Again, no. But anyways, why’re you bothering me?”

How could this kid possibly tell the difference between him and George?

“That’s rude,” George says, sticking out his tongue. “Can’t friends say hi without a reason?”

Ed stares at George. “I was under the impression your brother wanted to be my friend. Not you.”

George grins at that. “Right, ‘cause I was ‘under the impression’ that you were a violent maniac.”

“Mhm, you must not have many other friends if you haven’t heard the rumors. I am a violent maniac.”

“I’m actually here to talk to you about that…,” George trails off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I heard from my brother, Ron, about your boggart.”

Ed scrutinizes George, specifically his hair. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“It does?”

“Yeah, you look alike.”

“What?”

“You said you had a brother named Ron. There’s a Ron Weasley in a bunch of my classes. You look alike.”

George’s mouth hangs open. “Wait, you didn’t know I’m a Weasley? That Fred and I are Weasley’s?”

Ed’s face scrunches and he shrugs. “Should I have known?”

George looks at Ed’s genuinely confused expression and relaxed body language: he’s not lying, he’s just doesn’t care. He doesn't really care about anything the average wizard would consider important information. George laughs. “I’m starting to get why Fred likes you.”

“Thanks, I guess? Anyways, you were saying?”

“Right. Ron told me about your,” George waves a hand, “you know. Boggart.”

He’s never seen someone’s face darken so quickly. 

“And?” Ed snaps.

“And. And I, er, wanted to check in. On you.”

The fury in Ed’s features disappears as suddenly as it had appeared. “Why would you want to do that?”

George chews on the inside of his cheek. He’s a little concerned the Hufflepuff might lash out at him, but he remembers what Ron and Harry had said and forces himself to say it anyway.

“You had a brother, right?”

It’s as if his question drains the life from Ed’s body. George winces at the way Ed’s eyes become hollow and the energy that normally radiates from his every action vanishes. Maybe this wasn't the best idea.

“How do you know that?” 

“Ron said your boggart looked a lot like you. And that you spoke the same language.”

“Oh.” 

He looks small, George decides, when he sees how Ed’s shoulders hunch.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” George says. He sits down on the ledge of one of the open arches facing the courtyard and pats the space next to him. “Just let me tell you something.”

Ed sits down wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face.

“We did boggarts in third year too,” George says. “It really sucks. I get why they teach it and everything, but it’s one of the most awful things they made us do.”

Ed listens quietly. The hallways are empty, because most people are still at the Great Hall, eating dinner.

“Can’t say I know the specifics of your boggart, but it sounded scarily similar to mine.”

“What?”

“Watching your brother die,” George says. “Not a good time.”

“You see Fred die,” Ed asks quietly. Rhetorically.

“I see all of them die, actually,” George responds. “I have three older brothers, I have Fred, I have Ron, and I have a younger sister.”

“Big family,” Ed comments.

“It’s a lot sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything.”

They both sit without speaking for a while.

“Why did you tell me this?”

George rubs his nose and feigns nonchalance. “You’re scarier than McGonagall, so I figured no one asked how you were doing, because they didn’t want you to freak out and punch them in the face.”

It’s true. Luna doesn’t comment on the boggart issue and Neville avoided the topic entirely after his confrontation. Ed isn’t the kind of person who likes to talk about his feelings in the first place, so he hadn’t cared that the only people willing to associate with him didn’t bring up his crap.

(He issurprised that the Hogwarts rumor mill hadn’t dug its claws into his boggart's form. He doesn't know what to make of that.)

_George has hated me from the moment I twisted Fred's arm and yet he's here, trying to make sure I'm not traumatized by Al's death._

"You think I'm scarier than McGonagall?"

"Absolutely," is the prompt reply.

Ed laughs, actually laughs, and the sound startles George so badly he almost falls backwards off the ledge. 

It’s nice though. Ed laughs with his mouth wide open and his head thrown back, his eyes glittering with amusement. Ed laughs only when he means it.

“You know, you’d be more approachable if you laughed like that more often.”

“Why do you think I don’t?” A pause. “If you tell anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Ed shrugs. 

“Thanks, by the way,” he says awkwardly. “For checking in.”

George smiles.

“Guess I can tell Fred we’re finally friends.”

Ed snorts.

“Sure, _asshole_.”

"Hey!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading :o)
> 
> thank you also for the comments/kudos/other forms of interest! 
> 
> i've rearranged the timing of a couple canon events because it's an au anyway, and i needed some things to come before others (like the boggart vs. the hippogriff)
> 
> sorry if this chapter feels a bit like a filler; it's not supposed to be, but i really wanted ed to have decently fleshed out interactions with other characters before moving forward with the actual plot stuff (which i do have planned), since i had established he had pretty solid relationships with certain characters early on.
> 
> also, i promise i will always update on the 13th! ideally, i will post more than just once a month, but at the very least, it'll always be on "friday the 13th" ;o)


	5. edward elric and his GREAT new plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed's almost ready to take things into his own hands, lupin is tired, dumbledore is suspicious, and sirius black is on the move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone has been doing okay, despite the current situation with coronavirus. stay healthy, folks!

Detention with Lupin happens on Friday evenings, which would be unfortunate if Ed were the type of student to have a social life, but he doesn’t, so it suits him fine.

“Edward,” Lupin says as he walks into the empty classroom for his first detention. “Please take a seat.”

He does, choosing to sit a few rows away from the front.

“I’d like to have a conversation with you before deciding an appropriate punishment for the subsequent detentions.” Lupin is leaning against his desk in front of the dusty chalkboard, watching Ed with eyes ringed by dark circles. Ed doesn’t respond and waits for him to continue.

“What provoked you to attack Mr. Malfoy during our last lesson?”

_He definitely doesn’t pull his punches._

“Why do you call him Mr. Malfoy, professor,” he counters. “You call everyone else by name.”

Lupin’s hands twitch, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Ed.

“Are you familiar with the Malfoy’s, Edward?”

“No, sir.” That’s a lie. Ed has already read an extensive amount of information on wizard bloodlines, because it had tied into a lot of the history of Riddle's war on all things Muggle. He knows certain wizarding families, like the Malfoy’s, had pledged their allegiance to Riddle during the last war, which is one of the dumbest fucking ideas Ed has ever heard of. It also bit them in the ass when Riddle was defeated by one-year-old Harry Potter, twelve years earlier. 

“They’re an old and powerful pureblood family,” Lupin says. “Very strict on formalities.”

That doesn’t explain why Lupin would be bothered by them. There’s something he isn’t saying and Ed has a couple guesses as to what. The Malfoy’s are definitely the worst kind of blood-purists, based on historical evidence: the kind that actively wanted to shed blood over their prejudiced beliefs. That could imply Lupin’s particular discomfort with them is a result of his blood status, but in the current political climate and with Mr. Malfoy’s claim that he’d been mind-controlled by Riddle in the last war, it wouldn’t make sense for the Malfoy’s to blatantly hate on anyone who isn’t a pureblood. Ed shuffles the information away for later deliberation and returns his attention to Lupin’s ongoing monologue.

“Returning to the reason we are here,” he says, “why did you feel the need to attack Mr. Malfoy?”

When he sees Ed about to shrug, Lupin reprimands him. “That’s not an answer.”

“Do you really need one? I’m here, I’m receiving punishment without complaint, I’m… seeing the error of my ways,” Ed says, unintentionally gritting his teeth towards the end.

Lupin gives him a long-suffering look, one that borders on resentment, one that Ed is well-acquainted with from his numerous conversations with Mustang over the last three years of his life. He suddenly feels a loss he didn’t think he’d ever have. 

Something must occur to Lupin then, because he smiles innocently. The nonchalant way he blinks makes Ed’s hair stand on end.

“I see,” Lupin says, still smiling. “Then if you really have seen the error of your ways, I imagine you would have no issue with providing Mr. Malfoy with a public apology during our next Defense lesson.”

Ed recoils. “What the fuck? I’m not going to fucking do that, the asshole deserv-”

_Oh shit!_

“I meant no. No, thank you.”

Lupin stares at him blankly. “Could you repeat what you said, Edward? I must have misheard you.”

“I said no, thank you.”

Lupin’s blank look cracks and turns into one of mirth. He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners, exaggerating his laugh lines. He isn’t very old to begin with, but he looks decades younger in this moment than he ever has before.

“I did wonder when you would stop pretending, Edward, I just hadn’t expected such an abrupt reveal,” he says, between bouts of laughter. “Perhaps if you aren’t willing to share your reasons for the violence, you would be willing to answer another question I had.”

“What is it,” Ed asks warily.

“About your boggart,” Lupin starts.

Ed cuts him off. “No.”

“I didn’t even ask the question.”

“No means no, sir.”

“I don’t see the point of you continuing this facade around me, Edward.”

He’s not wrong. Lupin had already watched him punch the Malfoy kid in the face, heard him swear, and suspected he wasn’t actually polite to begin with. There is also the whole Sorting Hat ordeal someone brings up at least once a week. 

_He seems relaxed, all things considered_ , Ed thinks, trying to justify dropping the stifling act of a good student.

“I would also prefer that you felt comfortable around me,” Lupin adds, when Ed doesn’t say anything. “Please, be my guest.”

At Lupin’s insistence, Ed slouches into his chair, his posture aggressively poor and borderline disrespectful, the way he would normally lounge about Mustang’s office. (At least Ed has the decency not to kick his feet up onto the desk in front of him.)

“At least you’re relatively cool about it,” Ed says. “Think McGonagall would shove her wand down my throat if I spoke like that to her.”

“I hope you realize none of the professors buy into your act anyways,” Lupin says, an eyebrow raised. “The Sorting was a rather public reveal, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, but some of them would lose their shit if they thought I was being disrespectful. You know the type.” Ed pretends to fold his arms and sneer, the way Snape does constantly. 

Lupin snorts, but covers his face with his hand, as if to pretend he hadn’t.

“Saw that,” Ed points out.

Lupin ignores him.

“So… are you going to tell me to write lines or something? That’s what McGonagall ended up telling me to do.” Ed spends his Wednesday detentions rewriting the entirety of the transfiguration textbook, but if he turns in anything at the end of the detention that has even one illegible word, he has to redo the entire section. (Ed is only ten pages into the two hundred seventy-four paged book, because McGonagall is picky as all hell about what is considered legible to begin with.)

“I don’t much see the point of that, considering what I’ve heard about your penmanship - rumor has it that it made Pomona cry, and she’s the most patient of all of us when it comes to student work. It would make this detention more of a punishment for me, than you, don’t you think?”

“Wise ass,” Ed grumbles under his breath. His handwriting only sucks because he’s right-handed, but with the lack of feeling in his automail, he’s crushed over a million pens and ruined hundreds of gloves in the years following his surgery, before giving up and resorting to using his left.

“I’m afraid only my friends are allowed to refer to me that way,” Lupin says.

_Fuck, his hearing is insane._

“You have friends?” Ed deadpans. 

“Perhaps I spoke too soon when I said I’d prefer you were comfortable,” Lupin responds dryly.

Ed snorts. “Yeah, you’re going to regret it.”

“Who said that I wasn’t already?”

* * * * *

Lupin doesn’t end up giving Ed a punishment in the strictest sense: he interrogates him with a friendly smile, trying to pry answers out of Ed’s reluctant lips. He might as well be pulling teeth with the way Ed grimaces when he thinks Lupin isn’t watching.

“I don’t know,” Ed says for the hundred-and-thirteenth time. Lupin has relentlessly questioned Ed about his boggart, about what language he speaks, about the circle that the boggart had created.

“It looks very similar to alchemy. Have you ever studied the subject during your homeschool curriculum?”

“No,” Ed lies.

“So this means nothing to you?” 

Ed almost jumps out of his own skin when Lupin flips the chalkboard over and reveals a replica of the human transmutation circle. His right hand tightens into a fist, and if it were not for the glove, he’s certain he would hear the screech of metal as his fingers dig into his palm.

“No,” Ed says. He thinks he’s managed to keep the hysteria from bleeding into his voice.

If the wizards of this reality share one Gate, they don’t necessarily have access to the same alchemy Ed does. He’s sure that Lupin, or any other wizard for that matter, is incapable of activating this array, even if he has the right materials for it.

Scanning his eyes over the crude reproduction, Ed allows himself to breathe: Lupin may have drawn the rough outline, but he wasn’t able to correctly fill in the array or write out the proper words linking the circles together. 

“You’re not very good at lying, Edward.”

Ed keeps his mouth shut. The less he talks, the less he gives away. Mustang had drilled that into him before his first performance review, when he was actually thirteen. (As an official member of the military and at the reluctant command of Mustang, Ed has also received extensive training on how to deal with capture by enemy hands, and in worst case scenarios, how to endure torture. He hadn’t mentioned it to Al.)

“It’s been an hour,” Ed replies tersely after ten minutes of uncomfortable silence pass by. He gets up from his chair. “Same time next week?”

Lupin notices how Ed has already angled his body away from him, feet pointed towards the door, ready to leave as soon as possible.

“Yes, I’ll see you then.”

Ed nods and turns on his heel in order to walk out of the room. He desperately wants to run, but that would only alert Lupin that something is wrong. He has to physically restrain himself from bolting, planning out every step he takes until he’s outside of the classroom. The moment the door obscures him from view, he’s gone, running down the hallway.

Lupin watches Ed leave and stays seated against his desk until half an hour has passed. 

He stretches as he stands and makes his way to the gargoyle that guards Dumbledore’s door.

“Lemon drop,” he says to the statue. It allows him to access the spiral staircase and soon, he’s making himself comfortable in one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore’s cluttered desk.

The headmaster sits behind it, half-moon glasses resting on the very tip of his nose.

“Good evening, Remus.”

“Good evening, Headmaster.”

Dumbledore smiles.

“What have you learned?”

Remus is tired. He has an impending full moon to worry about and although he has been taking his wolfsbane potion, courtesy of Snape, he’ll have to make arrangements for the day after. On top of that, Dumbledore has asked him to dig into the transfer student’s life and let him know of anything they should be worried about. It’s likely that Dumbledore has made the same request of McGonagall and Snape.

“He’s got a mouth that reminds me of Si-,” Remus cuts himself off. “He’s got a mouth on him that would make mothers cry,” he amends. “But more importantly, the boy is stubbornly secretive. I couldn’t get much out of him about his mother tongue or the nature of his boggart, but I did get a reaction from him when I showed him the alchemy circle I told you about.”

Remus had reported to Dumbledore shortly after the boggart lesson, focusing on Harry’s boggart more than Ed’s, but Dumbledore had taken an interest in Ed’s boggart and had requested that Lupin utilize the detention to ask Ed about the scenario, particularly the supposed alchemy.

“I think it’s likely that the boy is skilled in alchemy. If not skilled, then at least informed on the topic. He’s hiding it and I’m not sure why, but he knows much more than he’s letting on.”

Dumbledore leans back in his chair and considers his words carefully.

“Do you believe young Mr. Elric is hiding it for the wrong reasons?” 

“I can’t say for certain, but I am currently leaning towards no. Edward hasn’t given me reason to believe he has a hidden agenda.”

“The timing, however, is suspicious,” Dumbledore reminds him gently. “Sirius Black has been sighted in Hogsmeade.”

Sirius. Merlin, as if Remus hasn’t been tormented by the thought of Sirius for the last twelve years without reprieve.

“I’m aware,” Remus says. “But Edward didn’t know of the Malfoy's history, so I think it is safe to assume he is Muggle-born or Muggle-raised. Or perhaps raised in isolation from the rest of wizarding society, seeing as he was homeschooled prior to this year. I would think a connection between him and Si-, _Black_ , is therefore unlikely, especially in consideration with his age.”

“I see,” Dumbledore says mildly. “Anything else?”

Remus rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’d like to request someone take over my lessons the day after the full moon. I’m afraid I might not be completely myself then.”

Dumbledore’s expression softens to one Remus has become well-acquainted with from conversations as a young wizard, discussing his… condition. He’d take the pity over the fear and disgust he’s more accustomed to, but he’d rather not be on the receiving end of any of it, if he were fortunate enough to have the option to choose. 

“Of course, Remus. I will find someone to teach in your stead.”

He smiles half-heartedly. “Thank you.”

* * * * *

Ed isn’t one to care about wizarding current events, because most of the time, reading headlines like “Dragons Discovered in Russia For the First Time in Two Centuries” makes him debate slamming his head into the castle walls until the nonsensical realities of the wizarding world begin making sense. They never will, so he usually doesn’t bother with the daily papers or any magazines, but he can’t exactly ignore the tabloid-equivalents spreading unreliable information about appearances of Sirius Black following his escape from Azkaban.

Sirius Black. It’s the name Dumbledore had mentioned during the very first meal of the school year, which Ed had misunderstood to be “serious black”. Because, _seriously_ , who names their kid something that unfortunate?

Ed keeps an eye on Black’s supposed sightings, not because he cares about the tabloid drama, but because he remembers something Truth slipped him during the initial information overload on the Hogwarts Express.

_A raggedy man a big black dog sitting in Azkaban wizarding prison._

Ed’s not sure what the dog has to do with anything yet, but he’s learned through the Hogwarts rumor mill that Sirius Black is tangentially related to the Boy Who Lived: he is responsible for the deaths of Lily Evans and James Potter, who somehow got pulled into Riddle’s blood war.

Yes, _blood war_. War in Amestris had technically ended before Ed was born, so it’s unfamiliar territory in a sense, but the ideology behind it is not, because nothing about war is ever new. Wars are fought between “us” and “them”, and from what Ed has read about Riddle’s “us”, he’s not happy. Death Eaters kill and torture Muggles and Muggle-born wizards, and Ed speculates that they will probably begin attacking half-blood wizards as well, if Riddle ever formally comes into power. Along with Malfoy Sr., who was acquitted on the count of being a Death Eater, it would appear that a number of other members of pureblood wizarding families were (and still are) labeled as Death Eaters, including one Sirius Black. 

The amount of energy he spends on keeping tabs on the escaped murderer is only possible because Ed hasn’t made a lot of progress on Horcruxes. He’s disappointed in himself, because he’s finally read every available book in the unrestricted section of the library and he hasn’t found any mention of them. He did, strangely enough, come across information on the Hallows in a book of children’s stories. “The Tale of Three Brothers” mentions three objects exactly as Truth had called them: the Elder wand, the Resurrection stone, the Invisibility cloak.

Ed has been making long-term plans to recover the stone. Long-term, because he hasn’t figured out a way to leave school grounds without alerting a dozen adults of his disappearance. He’s read a lot on the theory of apparition, and while he severely disagrees with the idea of teleportation, Ed can’t deny that his life would be made a lot easier by its existence. There isn’t the right time or place to practice, however, since the school grounds have wards against apparition and rightly so. Ed can only imagine the horrific accidents underage teleporting wizards would get into. (The few illustrations of splinching he’d seen had been enough of a warning.)

The stone will have to wait until summer, when Ed will also have to secure temporary housing. (The wand and the cloak he doesn’t even want to think about until he’s dealt with Riddle.) He hasn’t had to dip into Truth’s sack of ridiculous coins yet, but he’ll need a place to stay when the school year ends and he’ll need some more books, specifically to find information on Horcruxes.

Because damn, Horcruxes are impossible to investigate. Based on the lack of information he’s found in the library, Ed’s current hypothesis is that Horcruxes involve some amount of Dark Magic and are thus taboo, which makes him want to tear his hair out, because that limits his options on getting help: he’d love nothing better than to ask Irma for some resources.

Irma is a saint. He’s not sure how, but his constant presence in the library has segued into mutual understanding and she’s become his go-to person for any academic discussion. She’s stern and barely smiles and is more than ready to kick Ed out if he breaks any rules, but she seems to like him most of the time and will recommend him follow-up materials he could buy during upcoming Hogsmeade trips. She had also told him to call her Irma after the second time they had had a lengthy conversation on the necessity of public libraries for the good of humanity.

Irma will undoubtedly cut his throat, slowly, with the blunt pages of a book, if he makes any innocent (or not) inquiries about the Dark Arts. She seems the type to favor death by a thousand cuts.

He’ll have to wait for Hogsmeade before he can access any outside information, because Ed has yet to find a valid reason to request access to the restricted section. The best he’s come up with so far is that he’s read everything else and he’s bored, but he can already feel Irma’s disapproving glare boring holes into his face.

Hogsmeade it is. The first possible trip will be on Halloween, so hopefully that gives him enough time to research before the summer starts.

With a tentative plan forming, Ed tries to throw himself into school life, but Black and Riddle and Horcruxes linger in his mind as he falls into a monotonous daily routine. In the first few weeks of school, every single day was the same as the day that came before it, but Hogwarts is an infinitely more tolerable place now that Ed has friends. (Although he doesn’t give any outward indication that he’s pleased to have made friends at all.)

Fred was thrilled to hear that Ed had tentatively accepted the offer of friendship and he and George had crashed into Ed’s life like twin Bludgers. The twins will bother him in the library, pester him in the hallways, and occasionally annoy him during mealtimes at the Ravenclaw table while Luna revels in the havoc they wreak. (The Ravenclaws are understandably upset by the constant encroachment of their space, but they keep their mouths shut because they’re too passive aggressive to say it outright.) Ed uses words like “bother” and “pester” and “annoy” to maintain a front, but the reality is that he likes Fred and George as much as they like him.

It’s nice to be spending time with people his own age. (He hasn’t had the chance to do so in the last three years and Al doesn’t really count.) He’s fifteen, same as the twins, not that they know that, but they don’t call him any variation of the word “short” anymore or treat him like he’s a little kid, because they quickly learn that that is a world of hurt waiting to happen. It’s also uncomfortable to treat Ed like he’s a child, because his weird intensity about studying and being a fundamentally good person and faked, overly polite mannerisms in front of professors make him seem like an adult in all the ways that matter. (He’s basically the equivalent of a baby in a Renaissance painting: a small man.)

Ed likes Fred’s wise cracks and borderline offensive humor and self-confidence that anything he does, he will pull off flawlessly. Fred doesn’t hold back and he’d probably get into much more trouble if George weren’t constantly calculating the risks.

Ed likes George’s witty commentary and sarcastic retorts and what Ed refers to as his “mother hen” tendencies, which George refuses to acknowledge. Fred might be the one to get the ball rolling, but George is the one making sure all details are accounted for.

And of course, Ed likes Fred and George in combination, the cohesive way they function and complement one another in daily life. Fred’s loud mouth and George’s dry humor fit together seamlessly and Ed likes how he fits in with them without trying to be anything other than himself. They seem to appreciate his blunt honesty and deal with his anger issues and tease him for constantly frowning; they genuinely just like Ed without knowing too much about him.

And that’s the thing that Ed appreciates most: the twins let Ed keep his secrets once they’ve established that they actually are friends, because they decide to trust him wholeheartedly. (They never bring up the gold again and they never ask about the Sorting Hat once they realize it makes Ed uncomfortable and irrationally angry.) It’s also pretty easy for them to trust Ed, who’s rough around the edges, but has a heart of gold: they can see that from the way he treats Neville.

Neville has changed significantly in a short amount of time with Ed’s encouragement. He’s less nervous and almost never stammers when he talks anymore, which used to be Neville’s default mode of communication. All of the Gryffindors have noticed the change in Neville, who was previously considered “the Gryffindor legacy”: not actually brave, but riding the coattails of a family who is.

No one in Gryffindor had ever said these things to Neville, and no one says these things about Neville to Ed, because everyone eventually learns that Ed had punched Malfoy in the face for the boy in question. The rumors exaggerate the words that had been exchanged, but no one wants to find out where the limit is. (Because what if the limit does not exist?) They play it safe and as a result, Neville is having the best year he’s ever had at Hogwarts.

Luna is also thriving in Ed’s company. She isn’t attached to him at the hip the way the twins are and she doesn’t see him nearly as often as Neville does, but Ed still finds her at the Ravenclaw table for each meal and will listen intently to her latest topic of interest, while asking insightful questions for clarification. He’s the first person aside from her father who can and will carry a conversation with her and takes her seriously as he does. Luna’s initial acceptance of the foreign boy has developed into curiosity; she has taken to watching Ed when he’s not aware she’s looking. 

She likes how expressive his face is and how he tells the truth, even if the truth is impolite. 

She likes that he swears like his life depends on it, but gets upset when anyone else does the same.

She likes calling him Fullmetal, because whatever it is that makes Ed look so forlorn and tired and _sad_ underneath his scowling facade disappears whenever she says it. 

With the help of his friends, Ed’s reputation goes from noteworthy to straight-up notorious as the rest of Hogwarts scrambles to make sense of his character. Why are the Weasley twins obsessed with him and won’t leave him alone? How is Neville Longbottom a whole new person because of him? No one questions why Luna Lovegood isn’t ever publicly mocked anymore, since she’s also seen around him. And many of the students have started placing bets on when Blaise Zabini would actually make a move on him, rather than the one-sided (almost spiteful) flirting they’ve seen so far.

Blaise is Ed’s strangest “friend”, for lack of better word, as Ed very rarely sees or talks to the boy. He knows the friendship, built solely on brief sarcastic exchanges and bickering, is raising eyebrows (and in some cases, raising hairs), but he overheard one girl stage-whisper that it’s a real Romeo and Juliet situation. (He had had to consult Irma about the reference and had ended up spending a week tearing into a majority of Shakespeare’s works, seeing as he had nothing better to do.)

No, it’s not a “Romeo and Juliet” scenario, because Ed can see it in Blaise’s eyes whenever he “flirts”: there’s something calculating, and not necessarily sinister, but off-putting about the way Blaise looks at him, like Ed is a pawn on Blaise’s chess board. It’s what makes him so irritable around the other boy, who constantly smirks and rolls his eyes at Ed’s easily pushed buttons and casually calls him “dear”.

(Malfoy and company, who had said nasty things about Blaise’s initial interest in Ed, stop commenting on it entirely following the Punch. A week later, the rest of Slytherin won’t talk about it either.

“Figures Zabini’s type is ‘hot-but-crazy’,” Parkinson says as the final nail in that coffin.)

 _Things are almost nice for once_ , Ed thinks.

Left with nothing to read for the first time since his arrival, Ed spends his free time with his friends, only occasionally dropping by the library to discuss a new idea or interesting fact with Irma, who he can tell is pleased to see him, even if she frowns whenever he comes by. (He thinks she only does it to maintain a reputation.)

Ed is able to enjoy his youth for the first time in three years.

* * * * *

Care of Magical Creatures under Hagrid’s instruction is the equivalent of opening Pandora’s box and letting infants deal with the fallout. Hagrid has already exposed them to a variety of reasonably dangerous creatures, including the textbook, and is always excited to show them weird and fantastic beasts each lesson. Ed appreciates Hagrid’s enthusiasm, but Care of Magical Creatures is definitely not his cup of tea. If anything, it would be something Al enjoys, especially given his track record with stray cats. Well, if Al were here.

At least the Hippogriff Hagrid guides them towards is a step up from the Flobberworms.

“Yeh got to be real careful, understand? Hippogriffs are easy to offend.” Hagrid goes into great detail on the proper etiquette in approaching a Hippogriff, which involves bowing and other formalities that Ed has no interest in attempting. He does get to watch Harry Potter greet the creature hesitantly and actually manage to ride it, before landing in the clearing again. 

Yeah, there’s no way Ed’s getting anywhere near the winged beast, because Ed’s body belongs on the ground, where he was born, where he’s lived his entire life, and where he’ll be buried once he dies.

Or that had been the plan, until Malfoy opens his stupid fucking mouth and insults Buckbeak, even after Hagrid had expressly told them not to do that.

Ed can see Buckbeak’s muscles tense as he begins to rear back, ready to claw through Malfoy.

He doesn’t need to think. 

Before Hagrid or anyone else can shout a warning, Ed tackles Malfoy out of the way, shielding the other boy with his arm as Buckbeak’s talons narrowly miss delivering a serious blow. There’s a sharp pain along his left arm, but Ed doesn’t have enough time to check the damage. He shoves the other blonde to the side and rolls as Buckbeak attempts to grab them.

Hagrid rushes to soothe Buckbeak while the rest of the class is divided between screaming hysterically and running for cover behind nearby trees.

Buckbeak’s pissed, his feathered head angled to glare at Malfoy’s prone form on the forest floor with a beady eye.

“Fucking hell!” Ed hisses. He’s up and running, grabbing the back of the Slytherin’s robes, yanking him to his feet. He’s not quite fast enough, because he can see the Hippogriff’s pointed beak inches away from his face before he dives out of the way, taking Malfoy with him.

Hagrid rushes between the Hippogriff and Ed, arms raised. “Woah! Woah, easy now, easy!”

Ed drags a gasping Malfoy to the edge of the clearing, where he dumps him unceremoniously against the trunk of a tree.

With Hagrid’s giant figure in the way, Buckbeak is no longer able to see the blonde idiot who had insulted him. He spreads his wings and lets out a piercing cry, before folding his wings back in and ruffling all of his feathers back into place. Once Hagrid manages to thoroughly distract Buckbeak with the promise of food, Ed turns his attention to Malfoy.

“You good?” he asks as he extends a hand. The Slytherin takes it without hesitation, shock settling into his system as he nods quietly. Not that that will stop Ed from yelling. “Good, because I’m about to murder your dumb ass!” 

Ed shakes the stunned boy. “What the fuck were you thinking, idiot, Hagrid said don’t insult the dangerous clawed animal and you think the best thing to do in that situation is to insult the dangerous clawed animal! You must have shit for brains!”

He’s still ranting when he feels blood trickle down the side of his face.

 _Crap._

Ed’s jacket is torn, exposing a deep bloody scratch on his left arm. Thankfully, his right side is mostly intact, with the exception of a few scratches on his face from falling to the forest floor. There’s a gash on his forehead from Buckbeak’s beak that’s bleeding profusely. He wipes the blood away with the back of his gloves, which stain them red.

Someone in the crowd of students gasps belatedly and Ed scowls at them. 

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he snaps. He rounds on Malfoy, who’s staring at his bloodied glove. “You better shape the fuck up or next time I’ll let whatever magical creature is pissed off maul you like you fucking deserve.”

“Er, Ed, let’s get yeh to the infirmary, yeah?” Hagrid looms behind him, wringing his hands nervously.

Ed levels one last glare at Malfoy before facing Hagrid. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re bleeding,” Harry interjects from the side. It sounds like an accusation.

Ed furrows his brow. “Yeah, and? I get scratched, I bleed. What did you expect?” 

“That wasn’t my point!” Harry exclaims. “You should get Madam Pomfrey to check on you, it looks really bad!”

_Is this what constitutes a “really bad” injury in the wizarding world?_

Ed is sent to the infirmary, despite his curt insistence that he is and will be perfectly fine.

Madam Poppy Pomfrey fusses over him the moment he walks in, scolding him for the state of his left arm and turning his face from side to side, clucking over a particularly deep scratch millimeters below his right eye.

“How did you sustain these injuries?”

“Hippogriff,” Ed says.

“Sit!” she commands, directing him toward a rickety metal infirmary bed. Ed makes sure to sit at the very edge, his feet flat against the floor, because he has a feeling he’s about to have a conversation he had hoped to avoid for the duration of his time here.

Madam Pomfrey returns, her wand in hand and a worried look on her face.

“You should remove your coat so I can get a better look at those scratches. Hippogriff claws can cause some horrific infections,” she explains, waiting for Ed to undress.

“I’m honestly fine, ma’am, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

She shoots him a withering glare and any other objection Ed had in mind dies in his throat. He slowly peels off his jacket and he hears Pomfrey gasp. He’s wearing short sleeves today and the steel of his automail is all but obvious now that he’s abandoned his usual layers.

He takes off his gloves as well, because there’s nothing left for him to hide.

“What is this, young man?” she asks, prodding his automail with the tip of her wand.

“My arm,” he replies sullenly. 

She frowns. “That’s not what I was referring to. How did you acquire this _thing_?”

_If only Winry could hear you call her masterpiece a “thing”._

“I was young when it happened.”

She waits for further details, which Ed does not want to give, but he has to say something, so he tries to come up with something related to the wizarding world.

“Tried Apparating,” Ed settles on. “Got splinched.”

It’s technically possible to lose entire limbs through splinching, isn’t it?

Madam Pomfrey’s knuckles are white against her wand, which is still resting against the back of his arm.

“You were homeschooled your entire life?”

That’s not the line of questioning he was expecting. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Did the Ministry of Magic not send someone to check up on your development each year?”

“We lived in a very rural area.”

“So no one came by and noticed you had lost a limb?”

“No, ma’am.” He shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. 

The look on Pomfrey’s face shifts rapidly from horror to anger.

“Why didn’t you regrow it?” Her voice is tight.

_You can regrow limbs?_

“A reminder,” he says. 

_And a promise,_ he doesn’t say.

Madam Pomfrey’s suspicious glare worries Ed; she wouldn’t say something about the automail to the other professors, would she?

“Please don’t tell anyone,” he says.

The look on Madam Pomfrey’s face morphs into something monstrous and it suddenly hits him.

_Oh. She thinks… that someone… to remind me… OH FUCK!_

“It’s not like that!” he rushes to add.

Her lips are a furious scowl and her eyes are narrowed in a murderous glare.

“Not like what, Mr. Elric?” she asks. The tone of her voice is entirely at odds with the anger Ed can feel radiate off of her in waves.

“No one forced me to keep it like this,” Ed says. He can almost hear Granny’s spiel about the stress and pain involved in acquiring automail, in an effort to discourage him for his own sake. “I made the choice myself.”

He stops talking, letting Madam Pomfrey fill in the gaps with whatever she thinks is a reasonable explanation.

“Please.” He looks her in the eye for the first time since he’d taken his shirt off. “Don’t tell anyone.”

She turns away from him and busies herself summoning and erecting a pair of privacy curtains around his bed. Her expression is unreadable.

“Young man, do you really think a healer would disclose medical information to just anyone?”

“Oh, thank fuck,” Ed says under his breath.

“That said, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a prosthetic limb like yours before.” She holds out a hand, hovering over his arm, and looks to him for permission. He nods and Madam Pomfrey allows her fingers to travel over the grooves of his automail, before casting a diagnostic spell over it.

“A friend made it for me, when I refused to regrow it.”

“I see,” she says. Her eyes travel over some of the faded scars that map across his skin. “And these?”

“Ah. Rural area, kids raise hell outside, normal sh-, ah, stuff.”

Madam Pomfrey purses her lips. “Right.” She turns away from him for a moment and taps her wand against her chin as she deliberates. She looks back. “Sit still for a moment, I’ll find some ointment for those scratches.” She shakes her head as she walks away. “Hippogriffs, goodness.”

The curtains she had raised leave Ed in temporary isolation and he lies back on the cot, eyes closed.

_She said she wouldn’t tell anyone._

But wouldn’t she? She said she’s never seen automail before and Ed has never seen any mention of prosthetic limbs in the many, _many_ books he’s read since he arrived. Based on the interrogations he’s been enduring on Friday evenings with Lupin, it’s not hard to guess that he, or perhaps all of the professors in general, are questioning his background and his existence. They’re suspicious and rightfully so: he’s an unknown name and face, he speaks an unknown language, and he’s appeared out of nowhere around the same time that Black had gone missing from Azkaban.

Ed’s not stupid even if he acts like it sometimes.

_They probably think I’m involved with Riddle._

He grimaces at the thought. There isn’t a fool-proof method of assuring the wizards that Ed is on their side in what looks to be the makings of a war. Anything and everything he does would be scrutinized as an attempt to trick them into trusting him.

He’s interrupted from his rumination by the return of Madam Pomfrey, who has a bottle of sickly green sludge in hand.

She uncorks it and Ed immediately gags due to its overpowering smell. Madam Pomfrey rolls her eyes.

“None of that now,” she says. “This should help heal those claw marks nicely.”

She slathers it on his skin and he ignores the stinging sensation as the ointment sinks into his raw flesh.

Ed pulls on the gloves. As he’s putting his jacket back on, he hears: “You’ll be staying here for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow, once I check on how the wounds are healing, I’ll let you know if you can attend classes.”

“It’s fine, ma’am, I’ll just leave now.”

He regrets saying it immediately.

“You’ll do no such thing! To think a patient would try to leave my care before his treatment is finished!” She glares at him. “If you step foot outside of this infirmary before my say so, you’ll regret it, Mr. Elric.” And then she’s gone, leaving Ed to lie back down on the bed and contemplate his life choices in solitude.

The twins come find him once their classes are over and sit at his bedside chattering away until Madam Pomfrey banishes them due to the noise.

Neville drops in before dinner to catch him up on what he’d missed following his departure from Care of Magical Creatures.

In the evening, Luna leaves him a book of poems filled with handwritten notes and a cupcake from dinner. He takes his time reading the book, referencing her observations and interpretations as he goes.

Shortly before curfew begins, Blaise slips into the infirmary, with Malfoy in tow.

“You didn’t have to help me,” Malfoy says. He’s staring at Ed with an entirely unfamiliar expression.

“Hello to you too, asshole.” Ed doesn’t bother to get up from the bed, lying sprawled across the sheets. He covers his eyes with an arm.

“Why did you?”

“Do I need a reason?”

“You punched him in the face,” Blaise points out mildly.

“He deserved it,” Ed retorts.

“ _He_ is right here!” Malfoy whines.

“Then why?” Blaise prods, ignoring the indignant huff coming from Malfoy.

Ed sits up, putting his feet on the ground before turning to face both Slytherins. Malfoy, at least, has the decency to deflate under Ed’s glare.

“I don’t need a reason to help someone. If someone needs my help and I’m in a position to give it, then I give it freely.”

“How does that benefit you? It landed you in the infirmary,” Malfoy grumbles.

“And it could’ve ended with you six fucking feet under. Why does a person do anything? In the end, not everything is about ambition or profit or _winning_.” 

_Not everything has to be an equivalent exchange_ , he thinks ruefully, _not when it comes to people._

Malfoy shrinks at the venom in Ed’s voice and looks properly chastised.

_Good._

He also watches Blaise ponder over his words before looking back at him. Blaise’s eyes travel over Ed’s face and for the first time, Ed thinks he can see genuine emotion in them, not the calculating gleam of a predator observing its prey.

“Think about that the next time you make the conscious decision to be a total fucking asshole.” Ed lays back down on the mattress, a clear dismissal of the two.

Malfoy opens his mouth, annoyed, but then stops. “Thanks,” he mumbles. He turns and leaves the curtained off area in a rush, the tips of his ears red with embarrassment.

“Good night, dear,” Blaise says with the usual amount of sarcasm. But his eyes are intrigued as he opens the curtains surrounding Ed’s bed and follows Malfoy back to the Slytherin dorms.

* * * * *

Ed and Malfoy are asked to head down to Hagrid’s hut the next day, when Ed has been freed from Madam Pomfrey’s care.

Dumbledore is there, as are Hagrid and Buckbeak, who is lying down with his wings tucked carefully behind him.

“Ah, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Elric, thank you for joining us.” Dumbledore’s eyes _twinkle_. Ed shivers.

Malfoy turns his nose up slightly. “What’s this about?”

“Regarding the situation yesterday in Care of Magical Creatures, I have heard from Hagrid that there was something of an attack. We were wondering if something must be done in regard to our Hippogriff friend and so we called you here. Would you care to explain what happened?”

“So you did hear about it. Good. My father will certainly be hearing about it as well! To think that we’re allowed to even be around these, these _dangerous_ beasts! We could have died! We could have -”

Ed cuts Malfoy off. “Mr. Malfoy here didn’t pay attention to Hagrid’s lesson -” 

“Hey!”

“- and aggravated Buckbeak, sir. Nothing bad happened, so it’s nothing to worry about.”

Dumbledore raises his eyebrows while Malfoy turns to face Ed incredulously.

“You don’t want to press charges?”

“Buckbeak is an _animal_.”

“You can still press charges.”

“That’s called being a total fucking asshole,” Ed says quietly, so that only Malfoy can hear.

The Slytherin’s haughty look falters at the reminder and he makes a small noise that Ed takes as his cue to take over.

Ed addresses Dumbledore and Hagrid. “We’re both fine, sir. I thought yesterday was a very interesting lesson, Hagrid. Buckbeak’s great.”

Ed not-so-subtly elbows Malfoy in the ribs. “Yes,” the Slytherin says weakly, “great.”

“If that’s all, we’ll be off then!” Ed grabs Malfoy by the arm and begins climbing the slope back up to the castle.

Dumbledore watches the two students leave, before addressing Hagrid. “It looks like Buckbeak will be perfectly safe right where he is.”

Hagrid beams.

Buckbeak sleeps without a care, head balanced on top of his folded front legs.

* * * * *

“At least you learned something this time around,” Ed says to Malfoy, who’s struggling to keep up with Ed’s quick strides.

“Hardly,” the Slytherin sniffs, falling back on his best I’m-better-than-you impression. “It just goes without saying that Slytherins don’t owe people. So consider us even.”

Ed has half a mind to tell Malfoy they technically already are even, when one considers that Ed had struck Malfoy across the face, but he keeps it to himself.

“Some things,” he says instead, focusing on the castle ahead of them, “are not about being 'even'. Can you tell me what you think your life is worth?” He glances at Malfoy, who looks too young to be as cruel as he is. “That’s right, you fucking can’t. If I had decided to let Buckbeak attack you and you had died, would killing Buckbeak be worth your life?”

Malfoy is silent.

Ed stops walking and stares at him. “If Buckbeak hadn’t killed you, and you’d been critically injured, would there be anything equivalent that could be done to compensate for what you’d lost?”

_His right arm is gone, not even a bloody stump left over. Al’s body is gone, everything left of him intangible._

Ed swallows, trying to alleviate the ache of his dry throat. “Take it from me -”

_The composition of an average human adult is…_

“- an eye for an eye -”

_… not enough._

“- only ever works in theory and theory alone.”

Ed leaves Malfoy at the side entrance and looks for a quiet place where he can be alone.

Ed stands by equivalent exchange as the most important rule of alchemy. _One is all, all is one_. But it doesn’t work with people, who are messy and unpredictable and unable to be valued by an easily determinable worth. 

There are no equivalents when it comes to handling human beings, Ed had learned long ago.

* * * * *

Ed doesn’t sleep for seventy-two hours, beginning when he wakes on the second day of October.

Every minute of October 3rd, he spends thinking of Al, of his mother, and of alchemy and Truth.

He tries to quantify the worth of an arm, of a leg, in comparison to a heart or a lung. What would Truth give him in exchange for his brain? For a finger? A hair?

(He constantly smells smoke and feels the heat of a house on fire, that isn’t there.)

At 23:59, October 3rd, Ed sits on his bed, curtains drawn, and opens his watch and rubs his thumb over the message scratched inside.

“Don’t forget.”

* * * * *

“What have you learned about young Mr. Elric this week?”

Remus is once again sitting across from Dumbledore in the privacy of his office. (Relative privacy, given that the portraits of past headmasters love nothing better than providing their opinion.) He rubs his eyes.

“Not much, Headmaster.”

It’s been several weeks since Edward Elric’s first detention and the only thing Remus has been able to ascertain is that the small, admittedly brilliant, _landmine_ of a transfer student probably wouldn’t talk even with the aid of Veritaserum (and hadn’t he been tempted to use it the last time he’d endured Edward’s eye rolls and derisive snorts at his attempts to question him.)

He pauses. “Actually, do you know about his wand?”

That peaks Dumbledore’s interest. “I do not. Care to elaborate?”

Remus wets his lips. “It’s nothing too important, more of a coincidence really, I’d say.”

“Go on,” Dumbledore encourages. His eyes are bright with curiosity.

“Interesting wand. Rather plain at first glance, completely smooth, no obscene shade of wood polish or fancy custom engravings as some students have.”

“But?”

“There’s an alchemy circle on the bottom.” Remus indicates lightly with his own wand. “Nothing too detailed or advanced, but a rather odd choice of embellishment for a student who denies having any interest or background in alchemy.”

Over the years, Remus had come to realize that Dumbledore lacks the typical mannerisms that most people display. He’s never seen Dumbledore jiggle his leg in impatience or drum his fingers against a hard surface. Remus has never seen the man so much as crack a knuckle. The complete absence of random habits makes Remus feel like Dumbledore’s missing some of the small irregularities that make most people seem like… people.

 _It’s what makes him seem intimidating_ , Remus thinks, _no matter how friendly he is._

“The material, too, seems uncommon,” he adds, when noticing Dumbledore’s thoughtful stare. “I’ve never met anyone else with a wand made of yew.”

Dumbledore blinks slowly. “A wand made of yew,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Remus answers. “Yew.”

The Headmaster doesn’t respond, sitting utterly still, which unsettles Remus further.

“Is there anything else?” Dumbledore asks, after a moment or two.

“Not that I can think of.” Remus shakes his head, remembering how hard it was to even begin a discussion with Edward about his wand. The boy acts like he’s a seasoned veteran under interrogation, even if Remus frames the curiosity as small talk.

“Then that’ll be all, Remus. Thank you, as always, for your hard work.” Dumbledore smiles, the expression gentle on his weathered face.

Remus leaves before he can watch the spark of pity flicker in his eyes.

Alone in his office, Dumbledore folds his hands over one another as he reflects on Remus’ report, as well as what he’s learned about Edward Elric since the start of term.

The boy defies expectations and seems to stick to his own moral code, which Dumbledore has yet to figure out. He’s in Hufflepuff, which is telling, reassuring, but his short temper and _convenient_ timing are worrying.

“Yew,” he eventually says to Fawkes, who’s asleep and not listening at all. “Perhaps this is the omen I was afraid to find.”

* * * * *

On Halloween, flocks of Hogwarts students are escaping the school grounds to have fun in Hogsmeade.

Ed, as a presumed orphan and emancipated minor, doesn’t require permission to leave Hogwarts, so he goes with Neville. He asks about the local bookstore on the way there, but Neville hasn’t ever been and doesn’t know much about it. He offers to go with Ed, but Ed quickly dismisses it and insists that he’ll meet Neville at the Three Broomsticks.

He wanders into Tomes and Scrolls on his own, preparing to deal with a barrage of questions regarding his topic of choice. Instead, he discovers an ancient wizard manning the cash register, who doesn’t acknowledge Ed’s entrance into the store and ignores him when he asks a question about the store’s layout.

The bookshop is dusty and dimly lit, but the books are well-cared for and well-organized, with small labels clearly indicating the subjects each section represented. He quickly finds his way to the section designated for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Unfortunately, but as expected, there aren’t any sections specifically dedicated towards _learning_ the Dark Arts, but Ed hopes there will be something about Horcruxes or how to defend oneself against them in what he has available.

He flips through the table of contents in a number of unfamiliar titles before he comes across the word at all.

 _How to Deal with Cursed Objects_ , by Annabel Sutton. There’s an entire chapter dedicated to Horcruxes, but Ed discovers the chapter is a mere four pages in the three-hundred page book. However, he’s already spent an hour looking for any leads and this is the only mention of Horcruxes he’s seen so far. If he spends any longer in the store, he’s certain Neville will wonder where he is.

He buys the book from the decrepit store keeper, who doesn’t say a word the entire transaction, simply scrawls out a price with a shaking hand on a scrap of parchment.

“Thank you,” Ed says after paying. The store keeper blinks. He slips the book into a brown paper sack and slides it over to Ed, who accepts it and rushes over to The Three Broomsticks.

“Took you long enough!” Neville says upon spotting him.

“Yeah, yeah, I was reading,” Ed says. “You know how it is.”

Neville makes a face. “You read too much for a Hufflepuff.”

“I do not! Everyone else just doesn’t read enough.”

“Merlin,” Neville says, eyes wide with sudden realization, “sometimes it’s like talking to Hermione.”

The two of them find a small table crowded into the back corner of the pub and Neville insists he go fetch them something to drink (non-alcoholic, of course). He returns with two steins brimming with hot butterbeer, which Ed accepts gratefully.

“Honestly prefer it cold,” Neville says, wrinkling his nose after swallowing a mouthful, “but I don’t think I can bear it right now.”

The weather has been decidedly cool as of late, with few students daring to linger outside longer than half an hour or so before slipping back into the warmth of the castle. Ed, however, hasn’t relented in his early morning routine and has still been making the short trek out to the practice pitch long before the sun rises. Three cheers for warming charms, otherwise his automail ports might have given him frostbite weeks ago and then Madam Pomfrey would have his head on a platter. (She already insists he drop by the infirmary twice a month to check in on his arm; he never ended up talking about his leg.)

“I like it this way,” Ed says. He’s never had butterbeer before, but Ed has always had a bit of a sweet tooth, so he’s not complaining. He doesn’t know if the drink would be better cold, given that the weather is absolutely miserable in Scotland all year long (in his opinion; he hasn’t actually experienced summer yet, but he’s 99% sure there’s no sunshine then either).

Neville launches into a monologue of sorts, rambling about the merits of chilled butterbeer on sticky summer afternoons, while Ed listens intently. He nods and hums at the right times and Neville talks for seventeen minutes uninterrupted, without stuttering.

“Did you find what you wanted then?” Neville asks, only once he’s run out of compliments for butterbeer.

“Yep,” Ed answers, popping the last syllable. He pats the brown paper bag resting next to him at the table.

“What’s it on?”

“Nothing interesting, more research for some DADA stuff I wanted to look into in my free time.”

“Ergh, _more_ research.”

“I think you mean, _more_ research!” Ed says, with fake cheer and an entirely dead expression. He almost wants to smile at the look of disgust Neville shoots his way. The Gryffindor notices the slight twitch of Ed’s lips.

“The day I see you smile is the day Merlin, Morgana, and King Arthur himself decided I deserve to _die_ ,” Neville declares.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Neville and Ed spend roughly two hours chatting in The Three Broomsticks before picking up their things and making their way back to Hogwarts. Neville laughs at Ed’s in-depth analysis of Luna’s confusing arguments and teases him on the twins’ most recent efforts to prank him (piss Ed off).

The combination of a change of scenery, fresh air, and company leaves Ed in a good mood as he heads off to the Hufflepuff dorms.

It doesn’t last (it never does).

The common room is full of energy, like a live wire, the commotion overwhelming.

“What’s going on?” he asks Elliot, who jumps a little at Ed’s question.

Elliot’s eyes are huge. “The Gryffindor common room… Sirius Black was in the castle.”

“What?”

“Someone slashed through the portrait guarding the Gryffindor common room,” Zach says, joining Ed and Elliot. “The other portraits are saying it was Sirius Black.”

“Why Gryffindor?” Ed asks.

Zach snorts. “Why do you think? Who in all of Hogwarts would peak Black’s interest?”

“Harry Potter,” Ed says immediately. _But why?_

“Exactly,” Zach says, with a snap of his fingers. In a low voice: “I heard he’s here to finish what You-Know-Who couldn’t.”

Ed recoils. “You think he wants to _kill_ Potter?”

“Everyone wants to kill Harry,” Elliot responds. “Happens every year he’s been here.”

“Potter is _thirteen_ ,” Ed says.

Both Zach and Elliot shrug in unison. “He’s the Boy Who Lived,” Zach answers, as if that’s a valid justification.

_This is fucking unreal, even for wizards._

Ed knows all about “the Boy Who Lived” crap, but he had somehow missed that “logical” step between “Potter and Riddle are enemies” to “grown-ass adult wizards are going out of their way to murder the kid”. 

“Are you Muggle-born, Ed?” Zach asks hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Ed says, distracted.

“Makes sense. Everyone else knows about Harry and You-Know-Who.”

“His life must suck,” Elliot adds quietly.

 _Not as much as Black’s will,_ Ed thinks viciously, _once I find him._

* * * * *

The entire student body is moved into the Great Hall as the professors sweep the castle for signs of Black.

Everyone is whispering about the escaped Death Eater for a change, which Ed would appreciate if he weren’t still reeling from the thought of adult wizards trying to kill a Muggle-raised child with little more than two years of magical experience to his name.

 _Fuck, how is Potter not_ dead _already._

“ _This is some fucking bullshit, Al. This is more fucked than letting a kid into the military,_ ” he mutters.

( _Y_ _ou think everyone has it worse than you do, Brother._ )

Ed is sitting, arms and legs crossed, on a bedroll closest to the doors, at the very end of the Hufflepuff line of students. There’s a space between him and the rest of the Hufflepuffs, who are practically huddled together in a giant dog pile. It’s discomfort that keeps them apart: Ed is still dressed in his jacket and gloves, unwilling to potentially expose his automail, and the rest of Hufflepuff still don’t know what to make of him. It’s fine. It’s always fine.

He is still thinking about Harry Potter when someone sits down next to him.

“Your face will get stuck like that if you keep making that face,” Luna says softly. Her hair almost glows in the low light.

“You should get some sleep,” Ed responds, trying to smooth out the scowl on his face.

“Can’t,” Luna says. “Too many Feinfeys right now.”

“Feinfeys?”

“They whisper things in your ears and try to drive you mad while you sleep by manipulating your dreams.”

“I see,” Ed says. “Definitely a good time for them to be doing their thing then.”

Luna nods. “Can I braid your hair, Fullmetal?”

Ed almost bursts out laughing, because _that_ is definitely a sentence he’s never heard before. “Sure,” he says, pulling his hair tie out. “Go crazy.”

He knows some of the students are watching now, but he couldn’t care less. They’re vultures, always waiting for their next meal (their next source of gossip).

Luna runs her fingers through his hair. 

“Favorite color?”

“Red.”

She tells him a story while she braids, something about an old witch who could hear lies, and Ed listens.

“I think I’m ready for bed,” she says when she’s done. She admires her work. It’s the same simple braid as always, but she tied the end with some red yarn.

“Night, Loony,” Ed says with a little wave. “Don’t let the Feinfeys get you.”

Ed doesn’t sleep that night and he can’t risk slipping out for his normal morning routine. He lies down with his eyes open, listening to the hundreds of other students breathe and snore and mumble in their sleep.

In the morning, the Fat Lady is replaced by Sir Cadogan the Mad Knight and everyone is allowed to return to their dormitories. 

Things are technically back to normal, but Ed is now formulating a new plan. He’s read though _How to Deal with Cursed Objects_ (thank you, Annabel Sutton!) and he knows why there aren’t any books on Horcruxes in the Hogwarts library: they’re hidden pieces of a person’s soul.

The book isn’t clear on how a Horcrux is made or how a person can tell if an object is a Horcrux, but Sutton makes it quite clear that Horcruxes are probably the worst Dark Magic a wizard can attempt. _Attempt_ , because they are notoriously difficult and immoral to create in the first place.

Ed feels sick thinking about them, because of Al. 

Al, whose entire soul is bound to an object, because of Ed.

(Ed throws up in the bathroom of his dorm room with the shower running, hoping no one can hear him. He doesn’t eat for two days before Luna suggests he at least have some bread before she reports him to Madam Pomfrey for neglecting his health.)

The new plan is simple: Truth hadn’t bothered to tell him where or what Riddle’s Horcruxes are, so Ed will need someone familiar with Riddle to tell him the details. And as luck would have it, there’s a former Death Eater lingering somewhere in the area, that Ed’s been meaning to _talk_ with.

Is it a good plan? No. It’s a _great_ plan. And if Black needs some encouragement to start talking, Ed is more than ready to provide it.

But trips to Hogsmeade (and opportunities to find Black) are put on hold after Harry Potter gets attacked by dementors during a Quidditch game.

Ed’s not surprised, he just wonders why this hadn’t happened sooner. Black had first entered the castle during the Hogsmeade trip on Halloween weekend after all, so he can’t help but feel that the Hogwarts staff aren’t doing enough to protect Harry from the threat on his life. They’re negligent, in Ed’s opinion, but maybe that’s just from the viewpoint of someone who’s familiar with military strategy and isn’t lacking in common sense.

* * * * *

Lupin also misses class (and postpones Ed’s detention the week of the Quidditch game), so Ed gets to enjoy Snape’s presence in two of his classes, instead of just one. Snape doesn’t bother following Lupin’s schedule either, shoehorning werewolves into the lesson plan with no regard for the syllabus.

 _Werewolves_ , Ed thinks. _Peculiar timing._

It should be around the time of the full moon; Ed’s not exactly sure when though.

_Lupin’s boggart. Mr. Malfoy and that lie about propriety. Snape being even more of an asshole about this particular topic._

“Well,” Ed says, “that explains a lot.”

* * * * *

“How do you guys always know where I am?” Ed asks Fred.

The three of them are sitting in the Hogwarts kitchen, which Fred and George had only recently let Ed know about. (They still have their secrets too.)

The house elves took some getting used to, but they’re always excited to see students and Ed, who likes to eat in the early hours of the morning in addition to three meals a day, becomes a frequent visitor, once he’s assured by the elves they like working and they’re fine with him dropping in. (Ed suspects his automail plays a role in his constant need for food.)

Fred is chewing on a muffin and George has a cup of hot chocolate in his hands. Ed is digging into his second bowl of goulash. 

“That’s confidential,” Fred answers with a shit-eating grin. 

Ed whacks his arm. He turns to George. “How do you do it?”

Fred and George track Ed down no matter where he is, popping into existence as if apparating, unless he’s in the Hufflepuff dormitory. Even then, there were a couple of times one of his dorm mates would let him know the twins were causing a ruckus outside the common room and demand he go out and placate them.

“Why do you want to know all of a sudden?” Fred asks. 

“Can you swear,” George adds with a smile, “that you’re up to no good?”

 _I’m looking for ways to track down Sirius Black_ , Ed doesn’t say, _what do you think?_

“Obviously.”

“What do you say, Freddie?”

Fred keeps grinning, but pulls out a folded piece of parchment and lays it out for Ed to see.

“I solemnly swear,” Fred starts. Both he and George place their right hands over their hearts. “That I am up to no good.”

Ink appears on the parchment, bleeding out randomly at first, but then taking shape.

“Marauder’s map,” Ed reads aloud. “What kind of names are these?”

 _Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot & Prongs _ is scrawled in flowery penmanship across the front.

“They made it,” George clarifies. “We don’t know they are.”

“But whoever they are, they’re absolute legends,” Fred says.

“This map,” George continues, opening up the parchment, “shows the location of every single person in Hogwarts and the locations of the many secret passages incorporated in the castle.”

Ed watches tiny ink footprints appear and disappear on the castle layout displayed before him.

 _Fred Weasley, George Weasley,_ and _Edward Elric_ stand motionless in the room marked _Kitchen_.

“Holy shit,” Ed says.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Fred wiggles his eyebrows.

“You stalk-”

Ed doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Fred crams the rest of his muffin in Ed’s mouth.

“You know you love us,” Fred says.

Ed shoves him out of his chair, while George laughs in his brother’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!
> 
> also, thank you for any comments, kudos, and any other forms of interest!
> 
> so i know in the manga, ed is pretty extreme about equivalent exchange (like when he proposes to winry), but i honestly think he's noticed the discrepancy between what is considered equivalent outside of alchemical laws (like why is an arm worth a soul?)
> 
> i'm also really glad a lot of you liked fred and george's characterizations - i specifically tried to find out what j.k.rowling had in mind for them, because i didn't remember much about the differences between them in canon.
> 
> i have also created a tumblr specifically to give updates, since i don't have a regular posting schedule as of now.
> 
> [tumblr!](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)
> 
> looking forward to posting the next chapter on the thirteenth! :o)


	6. an edward elric christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's christmas fluff (am i using that term correctly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone is doing well and staying safe and healthy.
> 
> happy "friday" the thirteenth :o)
> 
> i want to say upfront that this chapter is decidedly short (about half the length of the last three chapters) and most definitely filler, but it was also important to the story for me

The Marauder’s map is an interesting concept, but ultimately unhelpful to Ed, unless Black decides to have another go at breaking into Hogwarts.

 _A raggedy man **a big black dog** sitting in Azkaban wizarding prison_, Ed recalls. It was one scene of the hundreds that Truth had flooded his brain with when he had first arrived and he’s been thinking about it non-stop since Zach and Elliot voiced their opinions on the meaning of Black’s appearance in the castle.

_There’s no fucking way, is there?_

Animagi are registered and their identities are controlled by the Ministry of Magic. Sirius Black is not a registered Animagus, based on Ed’s preliminary research.

_We’re looking for the wrong thing._

When Hogwarts finally allows its students to return to Hogsmeade shortly before the winter holidays begin, Ed makes an effort to ditch not only Neville, but Fred and George, as he attempts to put his theory to the test. He tells them he’s mostly going to be holed up in Tomes and Scrolls, which thankfully deters them from attempting to tag along.

He begins scouring the alleys and back roads of the tiny wizarding village in search of a dog, any dog. 

Ed rustles through rubbish bins and checks to see if any cellar doors have been left unlocked. Unsurprisingly, the doors to the cellar of the Hog’s Head are unguarded, but Ed finds nothing there except for an appalling abundance of mold and several crates of questionable liquid he’s sure they pass off as alcohol.

There’s no sign of a dog on his first attempt, although Ed does run into a fearsome-looking ginger cat with a squashed face.

He remains unbothered and unhurried; there will be plenty of time for dog-catching during the holidays.

* * * * *

“- and Gran’ll kill me if she thinks I’m trying to avoid another family dinner and even more of her stuffy parties, but I suppose she doesn’t have much else to look forward to nowadays.”

Ed had asked Neville what his plans for the holidays were and Neville had responded with a detailed outline of events to come, courtesy of Augusta Longbottom, his grandmother and head of the family.

“Are you going home for Christmas, Ed?”

“Nope.”

Ed is grateful that the Hogwarts dormitories remain open during the winter holidays, otherwise he’d have to be scrambling for a place to live right now. It also presents him with the perfect opportunity to go Black-hunting in Hogsmeade and the neighboring area. Maybe he’ll finally take a look around the forest.

“Not planning on seeing your family?”

“Don’t have any.”

Neville stops in his tracks. “What did you just say?”

“I’m not going home for Christmas.”

“After that, I mean.”

“I don’t have any family,” Ed says quietly. “They’re dead.”

 _They’re not dead, not dead. You have Al, you have Winry, you have Granny, you have Mustang, you have Hawkeye, …_ Ed continues to list the family he does have as he lies out of necessity.

Neville freezes. He doesn’t immediately jump to pitying Ed or saying sorry as if he were responsible for whatever happened, and Ed’s relieved, because he hates that kind of empty sympathy, even if he does get where it comes from.

“Would you want company?” Neville says.

Ed knows life has been tough on Neville, even if he isn’t sure of the specifics, and Neville still somehow turned out to be one of the most thoughtful people Ed’s ever met. He somehow navigates situations that make Ed uncomfortable in the perfect blend of compassion and distance, like right now, as he gives Ed the choice to not be alone during Christmas.

“Thanks for offering,” Ed responds, biting back a smile, “but sounds like your grandmother is missing you and I have a lot of shit to get done while we don’t have class.”

Neville hesitates, as if debating whether to insist on staying, but instead, smiles a bit awkwardly and shakes the snowflakes from his head. “More books, I imagine.”

“Can’t let those Ravenclaws think I’m slacking, right?”

Neville laughs, his shoulders shaking at the thought of the pinched expressions the Ravenclaws shoot at Ed constantly, whether in the classroom or out of it.

Ed relaxes, content to let the sound of Neville’s laughter blanket over the dull ache that reminds him he won’t be going home for a long time.

* * * * *

The Saturday before Christmas, Ed walks with Neville and Luna, both of whom are heading home to see their families, to the train station. As they bid their goodbyes and the two younger students clamber on board the Hogwarts Express, Neville turns to call out that he’ll write Ed a letter about all of the latest family drama.

“I know you’re dying to find out what shade of brown Great-Uncle Algie picks this year!”

Ed spots Fred and George as well, along with three other redheads (including Ron from his classes), Hermione Granger, and Harry Potter. The twins wave to him, Fred blowing an exaggerated kiss that makes Ron stick out his tongue and pretend to gag and leaves Harry and Hermione glancing weirdly between Fred and Ed. Ed flips the twins off with both hands and he watches George’s grin melt into easy laughter that he can hear over the commotion and swarms of people.

Fred pretends to swoon.

When the train is gone and he can’t even make out the thin trail of smoke puffing out of its engine, Ed gets down to business.

He doesn’t expect to find anything on his second attempt, but when he hasn’t found a single trace of dog for the next six days, Ed’s confidence begins to waver, which is a terrible sign, because Edward Elric is annoyingly persistent at his best and worst. Each day he returns to Hogsmeade, Ed stamps through newly fallen snow, in search of something that he doesn’t ever find. He forgoes talking to anyone or asking if they’ve seen a dog recently, because he doesn’t want to potentially reveal anything unnecessary or bring even more attention to himself.

He even wanders into the fringes of the Forbidden Forest one day, but stops himself from going in much further, as the trees manage to block out daylight a mere 100 meters in.

Ed doubles down on his efforts a week and a half after the start of the holidays, making himself scarce around the school grounds, only coming back to eat and sleep and shower, all of which he can do more comfortably now since his dorm mates also left on the earliest possible train.

Hogwarts is quiet when it is abandoned, a distinct lack of chatter and excitement in its halls. But more than that, there’s a lack of energy in the air, everything too still and cold and dead.

He ignores the fact that he misses his friends and he stops himself from thinking about them too often.

Or at the very least, he tries to, for the sake of his mission, but it’s a difficult thing to do when his friends actually care about him too.

He gets letters delivered to him by an owl he guesses belongs to Neville’s grandmother, because Neville insists he doesn’t need one when he can use the school owls and he already has Trevor to take care of. Reading the pages upon pages of neat scrawl, that depict Hamlet-levels of drama-infused family dinners and uncomfortable conversations with distant relatives who can barely remember Neville’s name, distracts Ed from the pressure of finding his one potential source of insider information on Riddle and from the stress over the ungodly amount of time it’s taking him to get things done.

Fred and George send him a Howler on Christmas day that screams the entirety of a popular wizard Christmas carol, which echoes in Ed’s ears for the rest of the day and gets stuck in his head for the rest of the week.

He doesn’t hear from Luna, but doesn’t think much of it, since her farewell at the train station had included a solemn confirmation that “I’ll see you when I dream”.

And then there’s Blaise, who seeks him out one of the rare days he doesn’t go out to Hogsmeade.

“Merry Christmas, dear,” Blaise starts off.

“Merry Christmas, you cheery bastard.”

“That’s rather uncalled for.”

“Nothing’s uncalled for when you’re involved.”

Ed is sprawled on a chair in one of the unlocked classrooms, feet propped against the desk in front of him. His head is hanging over the back of his chair, so that he watches Blaise approach him upside-down.

“What’d you need?”

Blaise settles down behind him with perfect posture and a flash of a well-practiced smirk. “Do I need a reason to see my favorite delinquent?”

“Do you even know what a delinquent is?”

 _There’s something different about him_ , Ed thinks as he glares at the Slytherin. _He’s looking at me differently._

And he is. Blaise thought everything about life at Hogwarts would be boring and ordinary and predestined. He knew he’d be a Slytherin, knew he’d be included in Malfoy’s posse of powerful and rich pureblood associates, and knew he’d be totally uninterested by the whole seven-year ordeal.

From a young age, Amara Zabini had taught Blaise that life is a game and there can always be a winner.

“It’s about strategy, about knowing the other players, and about knowing what you want.”

Blaise is excellent at strategy and he’s almost on par with his mother in understanding other people, the way they think and their motivations and all, but he’s never wanted anything. He plays his part the way it will benefit him best, but there have been no moves that reveal him to desire anything more than a comfortable life in high society.

But he knows what he wants now.

Blaise thinks from time to time about his first interaction with Ed, his reason for finding the ill-tempered Hufflepuff interesting and potential for future entertainment. Ed had been an unexpected surprise in Blaise’s otherwise comprehensive life plan and Blaise isn’t one to let an opportunity so fascinating pass him by. It was surface-level investment in spicing up his own life that had kept him in frequent contact with Ed, learning how to best get a rise out of the Hufflepuff and leaving him baffled whenever he passed him in the halls.

And Blaise had been convinced that was all he really needed, until he had brought Malfoy to Ed’s hospital bedside (at Malfoy’s insistence) and got a refreshing taste of what Ed’s thought process was like.

He spent some time avoiding Ed, trying to put into words the subtle ache of _want_ that hounded him non-stop, the ache that whispered “in the end, not everything is about ambition or profit or _winning_.”

It’s not like Ed is the only person alive who has ever expressed that sentiment, but even Harry Potter, everyone’s first example of a good person, hadn’t looked particularly keen on rescuing Malfoy from trouble (that he had caused, to be fair).

So he’s sitting here now, behind Ed, hands folded over the other like a proper gentleman, because he knows what he wants.

He wants to know what life is like when you can hate someone so clearly, but still put all of that resentment aside to save them.

He wants to know what life is like when it’s not about winning.

He wants to know what life is like when you’re Edward Elric.

“You’d be surprised to find that there is little I don’t know when it comes to you,” Blaise answers, unabashed. He watches Ed blush angrily – and isn’t it weird to discover a person could blush angrily? – and he wonders what the Hufflepuff would have been like if he’d been ambitious enough to be a Slytherin.

“Shut up,” Ed says, picking himself up and spinning around to straddle the back of the chair. He crosses his arms and rests his chin atop them as he scans Blaise’s face for an indication of his intentions.

Blaise doesn’t have any intentions. He’s here because he wants to understand Ed.

“How have your holidays been?”

Ed shoots him a look that would make anyone else want to curl up and die. “Fine, I guess. You?”

They’ve never shared in a conversation as simple and small as this. It’s always been about the banter and the snark and the big show of it to other students and professors.

Blaise smiles at the bizarre intimacy of it.

“Mine as well. Kind of you to ask, dear.”

He can’t bring himself to drop the curtain on the show, to just be the Blaise who wants to understand.

“You seem kind of weird. You okay?”

“Never better.”

They’re staring at each other. Ed with predictable suspicion, Blaise with a quiet fondness for someone who’s ultimately a stranger. How do you get to know someone?

How do you become… friends?

“You look tired. Have you been sleeping properly?”

The question results in an agitated Ed, who leans back and away from Blaise.

“Yeah,” Ed says slowly. “Yeah, I have.”

Blaise clicks his tongue. “That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one. You look like death warmed over.”

“ _You don’t know the half of it,_ ” Ed snorts with a roll of his eyes.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Blaise responds, still the picture of politeness.

In Amestrian.

“ _What the fuck did you just say?_ ” Ed says, his tone soft and light and downright terrifying. His grip on the back of the chair tightens to the point that the wood creaks, threatening to crack.

_How could he possibly know Amestrian?_

“I should preface this explanation with the fact that I _don’t_ actually speak or understand your mother tongue. You just happen to use it a lot to make sarcastic comments, I’m assuming, and it doesn’t take a genius to learn how to say ‘ _fuck you_ ’.” Blaise taps his fingers against the desk. “Which I suppose is something incredibly rude, based on the frequency and fervor with which you say it.”

The tension in Ed’s demeanor is concerning, but Blaise almost wants to blush for admitting how closely he’s been observing Ed since the start of school. He won’t allow himself to do it though.

Ed takes several deep breaths and forces himself to relax his entire body with each exhale.

“I won’t do it again, dearest, I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”

“Say it again.”

Now Blaise is the tense one. “What was that?”

“Say it again.” Ed lowers his forehead to his arms, obscuring his face. “Please.”

“ _Fuck you?_ ” Blaise’s voice inflects upwards, turning the phrase into a question.

Ed’s eyes are closed as he listens to Blaise’s accented Amestrian.

It’s brief and awkward and sounds not quite right, but it’s the first Amestrian he’s heard that hasn’t been his own or any approximation of Truth’s in months.

Neither of them move for a very long time.

When Ed finally gets up, pushing his chair back with a startling screech, he pauses to stand in front of Blaise, who’s paralyzed by the smooth, blank expression on his face.

“ _Thanks_ ,” Ed says, loud and over-enunciated.

Blaise doesn’t move even as he hears Ed stomp away. He doesn’t think to move until he notices how low the sun is hanging in the sky.

He repeats the sound of the foreign language, how the odd syllables manage to fit together into the strangest song Blaise has ever heard.

“ _Thanks_ ,” Blaise commits to memory.

_For the next time._

* * * * *

The majority of students who had gone away for Christmas return on the weekend before the start of term.

The twins find Ed sitting in the same empty classroom he’d encountered Blaise, except this time, it’s warmed by a crackling fire. He’s positioned in front of the fireplace, book in his lap, his legs crossed over one another.

Fred is wearing a thick V-neck sweater with a “G” on the front, that’s much too small for him; it exposes his midriff, the slight protrusion of his ribs, and the freckled skin of his collar bones. The sleeves stop just past his elbows. George, on the other hand, is wearing a loose-fitted sweater intended for someone his size, with a giant “F” on it.

Ed raises an eyebrow at the sight of them. “Didn’t think you were the type for crop tops, George, but why is Fred wearing your sweater?”

Fred grins and puts his hands to his hips. “Nice view, isn’t it?”

“View? Yes. Nice? Eh.”

Fred gasps in mock offense, while George sighs. He takes a seat to Ed’s left and draws his knees up to his face.

“You’re the first to catch on,” George says. “Everyone thinks the jumper is mine and that Fred is me.”

“I’m not George, though, I’m Gred,” Fred tacks on, placing a hand underneath his chin and batting his eyelashes, “do you think my belly button distracts from my eyes?”

George indulges Fred, who’s striking coy poses like he belongs on the cover of _Witch Weekly_ , with a smile.

“The sweater isn’t yours?” Ed asks.

“Nah,” George responds. “It’s Ginny’s, but she didn’t like the V-neck on it so I gave her mine. Fred knew I wouldn’t feel comfortable wearing hers, so he gave me his.”

“Ginny? Does your entire family wear matching outfits?”

George lets out a huff of laughter. “They’re called Weasley jumpers for a reason. Mum makes one for us every year.”

Ed whistles softly. “Your mum _makes_ these?”

“Like what you see?” Fred interrupts with a wink, before sidling up to Ed. Both Ed and George ignore him this time.

“She does,” George answers. “She made you one too.”

“She did?”

“She did,” Fred confirms, slinging an arm over Ed’s shoulders. “Ickle Ronny-kins blabbed, saying we were always spending our time around this idiotic new kid and she insisted. She makes one for Harry too.” 

Ed scowls and flips him off, while Fred cackles at the gesture.

Neither of the twins mention that Mrs. Weasley’s initial impression of Ed had been founded on Ron’s opinions, who still couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of wanting to be friends with the Hufflepuff.

“He’s the Muggle version of a Death Eater or something,” Ron had explained over Christmas dinner. His mouth had been stuffed full of mashed potatoes, which he had then gagged on when Hermione had not so subtly elbowed him in the side. Harry had focused intently on his own plate of food, awkwardly trying to remove himself from what appeared to be a family feud.

“He’s not!” both Fred and George had shouted. 

“He kind of is,” Ginny had added unhelpfully. Molly Weasley’s face turned murderous.

Percy hadn’t bothered to say what he thought of the little blonde menace, because he was too busy discussing current Ministry policies with Mr. Weasley.

“Is this boy threatening you?” Mrs. Weasley had then asked.

“NO!”

There had been an argument between the twins and the rest of the Weasley’s that had lasted a week. (Harry and Hermione had wisely chosen to stay out of it.) A week of the twins isolating themselves from the rest of the family, despite it being Christmas, a week of Molly’s tears and pleading and Arthur’s attempts to reason with his sons. But in the end, the rest of the Weasley’s gave up and grudgingly accepted the friendship, because it became clear neither Fred nor George was willing to sever their ties with the “Muggle Death Eater”.

“He knows,” Fred had said quietly to his mother one morning, “the ways in which Fred is Fred and George is George. Like he just knows when George is upset but holding back to be nice and will let him rant about whatever is upsetting him.”

“And he knows Fred needs more time to read books and will read aloud for him when we’re together,” George had said.

(There are, of course, many other reasons the twins like Ed, but one of the things that caught their eye quite immediately was the way the Hufflepuff could discern who is Fred and who is George at any time, without hesitation. Fred and George can’t exactly figure out how Ed can always tell them apart (and he always does so casually, as if it weren’t a big deal), but they secretly appreciate it. Secretly, because they don’t want people to know that it bothers them in the first place. Their own family gets them mixed up at times, so they’ve learned to shrug it off for the sake of others’ feelings and ignoring their own. On top of that, it’s pretty difficult to get attention when you’re the middle children of _seven_ , especially the middle of six boys, so there are times when Fred and George have slipped through the cracks, leading most people to think of them as similar in more than appearance. 

It’s even worse at Hogwarts, where they intentionally play up the “who’s who?” thing, because when they’re acting like themselves, people still aren’t sure who is who at any one time and it’s disheartening. It’s always “Fred _and_ George”, even if they’re alone, or “Mr. Weasley”, removing the possibility for error. 

Maybe it’s better to say that people don’t care who’s Fred and who’s George. To other people, they come as a package deal.

Not to Ed.)

The subdued admissions from her sons on that quiet winter morning had been more than enough reason to like Ed for Mrs. Weasley, who promptly began knitting a Weasley jumper for the twins to take back with them when she had learned from George that he suspected something had happened to Ed’s family.

(Mrs. Molly Weasley loves all of her children and cares for them equally. But she hadn’t known that George held back so much or that Fred had trouble reading. They had never mentioned it before.)

“Want it?” George asks. “You don’t have to take it.”

Ed can feel the lump forming in his throat. The twins had called them “Weasley jumpers” and the meaning of the gift makes him think if he were to cough right here, right now, he’d end up with his heart in his hands.

“I’ll take it,” he says with feigned nonchalance.

The twins grin in unison as Fred hands him a sweater with a white “E” stitched on it. It’s soft and perfectly made and probably too big for him, but the most important thing is that it’s a familiar, eye-watering shade of crimson.

“George picked the color,” Fred informs him. And George had done so after noticing Ed always keeps Luna’s red strings wrapped around the end of his braid or woven into it. (There had been subsequent braiding sessions following the Great Hall slumber party, with Luna slowly working her way through different styles of braids on Ed’s hair.)

Ed runs a gloved hand over the tightly-woven stitches of the sweater and he smiles briefly, before he stifles it. Fred and George catch the smile anyway, but they exchange glances and keep it to themselves.

“Thank her for me,” Ed says.

“Going to try it on?” Fred asks, his tone suggestive.

“Constantly trying to undress me with your eyes is enough, don’t you think?” Ed retorts, without any true malice behind it.

“Never,” Fred declares.

“Ignore him,” George says. “Just see if it fits.”

Ed sheds his jacket and pulls on the sweater, which is approximately two sizes too large. The collar hangs off his shoulder if he’s not careful and the sleeves extend over his hands, but Ed actually prefers it that way, because they hide his gloves. 

The color is reminiscent of the jacket he’d donned ever since he first became a State Alchemist.

“It’s great,” Ed says. 

He can imagine the feeling of the wool against his missing limb. 

He hasn’t felt this warm in a while.

* * * * *

When Ed meets Neville after the holidays are over, he hands him a simple glazed pot holding a small Creeper’s Ivy. Creeper’s Ivy, so called because the plant seeks out heat and will often wrap itself around human appendages, like a tiny hug.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, his voice gruff and awkward. 

Neville stares at the ivy, its tendrils happily curling against his fingers. The leaves are a healthy green and though the plant is young, he can tell someone has been taking care of it well. 

It’s also known to symbolize friendship and affection.

Neville looks up at Ed, who’s looking sheepishly off to the side. His cheeks are faintly pink, as if he’d been out in the cold for too long. They’re indoors, though.

“It’s sweet,” Neville comments, but he’s not looking at the ivy. He grins widely. “Thanks, Ed.”

“It’s nothing,” Ed says immediately. The pink dusting his face darkens slightly. 

Neville takes a moment to memorize the embarrassed blush on Ed’s normally scowling face, the juxtaposition oddly heartwarming.

“I’ve actually got something for you too!” He rustles through his pockets, before presenting Ed with a small rectangular frame. There’s no picture inside of it, just a blank sheet of parchment. 

Neville cradles it carefully, ensuring he’s only touching the wooden edges. 

“What is this?” Ed asks. 

“They’re called Subvenire,” Neville says. There’s uncertainty in his eyes. “The parchment inside is charmed to depict a memory.” He pauses. “A lot of people use them to remember loved ones,” he adds in a soft voice. He holds the frame out to Ed, who accepts it gingerly. 

“Any memory will work?” Ed’s voice is quiet. 

“Yeah,” Neville says. He rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “You can add one later.”

Ed knows what Neville is doing and he appreciates that the other boy always seems to know how to give him space, while still showing he cares. 

“Thanks, Neville. I mean it.”

The two boys head toward the Great Hall to eat dinner. 

Later that night, in the solitude of his bed, Ed pulls a memory from his temple with the tip of his wand and watches its pale blue glow soak into the parchment. 

Within seconds, Ed sees Al, Winry, and him in their youth, laughing around the kitchen table in his no longer existing childhood home. In the background, a smiling Mom and Granny are bringing plates of baked goods to the table.

He slips the moving image into one of the inside pockets of his jacket and swallows the lump in his throat. 

He’ll have to thank Neville again tomorrow morning. 

* * * * *

Luna is wandering the halls barefoot (by choice), humming as she bows slightly to the portraits that she passes by. 

There’s the sound of footsteps chasing after her, but she doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. Only one person at Hogwarts stomps around like that.

“Loony,” Ed says when he catches up to her. “You could have waited for me.”

“You caught up, didn’t you?”

Ed sighs in exasperation and she laughs.

“How were your holidays?” she asks.

“Fine,” Ed responds. “Yours?”

“They were delightful,” she says, “Dad and I spent most of our days trying to rid our mistletoe of Nargles.”

“Maybe avoid mistletoe altogether,” Ed suggests.

“What’s Christmas without mistletoe!” She almost looks upset. “That’s treason to the spirit of Christmas.”

“My apologies, then,” Ed says sarcastically.

“They’ll forgive you, Fullmetal,” she answers, sincere as always.

They walk down the length of the hall in silence, the sound of Ed’s heavy footfall overwhelming the soft tread of Luna’s bare feet against the castle floor.

“Did you need something?” Luna asks in the end, as they turn the corner. They’re heading towards the main stairwell now, where they’ll most likely part to head to their own dormitories.

“Just had something to give you,” he answers. He holds out a fist and nods towards it. “Hand.”

Luna extends both hands, palms up. Ed opens his hand and drops something sparkly into them.

There are several small metal charms in Luna’s hands, twisted to look like the numerous creatures she had described to Ed in great detail over the few months they’ve been acquainted. 

(Ed had created them himself with alchemy, thinking of nothing more than the simple fact that Luna would like them.)

“Oh,” she says softly, her thumb brushing over the Nargle. “They’re perfect.”

“Figured you could use them for your jewelry,” Ed says. “Merry Christmas.”

He turns down the hallway leading to the Hufflepuff dormitory without warning and disappears in seconds, leaving Luna a bit surprised at the sudden gift and the equally sudden departure.

“He’s awfully shy,” she murmurs as she heads towards her own dormitory. “I suppose I’ll give him his gift at a later time.”

(When Ed wakes up two days later with a small package placed on his bedside table, he isn’t even surprised Luna either managed to get into his room somehow or found someone to put it there for her.

It’s a handmade pin, fashioned out of a bottle cap and a safety-pin. The bottle cap is metal – _tin_ , Ed thinks – and it’s painted a deep red. It features a slightly faded image of a sunflower.

 _A wearable portrait of Fullmetal_ , it says on the note attached.

He pins it to the front of his jacket and when Luna sees it over breakfast, she beams.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, hey!
> 
> as always, thank you all for reading and for leaving kudos and comments :o) 
> 
> i apologize for the length of this chapter. i had actual plot stuff planned but literally today as i was doing final edits, i felt like something about the plot stuff felt "off" so i cut it out. (i think it's because of how i wrote sirius.) normally, whenever i'm ready to post, rereading my work gives me a sense of "yeah, that sounds right" but this chapter prior to editing was just not that. 
> 
> i was debating not posting until i fixed the parts that moved the plot along, but i did want to post, since i said i would, and i figured given the current times, maybe the fluff will make you guys a bit happy :o)
> 
> that said, i will update on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com) how progress for the next chapter goes and hopefully i'll be able to update soon with a longer chapter (it will definitely be before the next 13th)
> 
> until then, i hope you enjoyed this chapter that i literally wrote to indulge myself lol 
> 
> the weasley's and harry and hermione go to the burrow over christmas because mrs. molly weasley refuses to have a christmas without her family at home.


	7. edward elric and his increasing irritation at somehow being the only rational person in this reality (excluding luna)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are you _sirius_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the 13th!
> 
> i hope y'all are staying safe and staying healthy :o)

Classes start up again on a Monday that leaves the world outside of Hogwarts covered in blankets of snow.

Inside the castle walls, all of the students excitedly report how they spent their holidays and groan about the workload they’re anticipating for this half of the school year. Students in their fifth and sixth years stress about their upcoming O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, but Fred and George are relatively unconcerned; Ed thinks they’ve got big things written in their futures regardless of their academic success, so he doesn’t waste his time ~~nagging~~ telling them to study, since the twins are going well out of their way to avoid it.

Ed goes through his monotonous daily schedule, barely paying any attention to his own classes as he’s already well-prepared for assignments and exams for the rest of the year.

McGonagall is still keeping a rightfully suspicious eye on him and low-key torturing him with his own sloppy handwriting during their Wednesday detentions, but the rest of the professors (aside from Snape who tries very hard to find fault with Ed’s potions) hardly find issue with his work. (The Ravenclaws, even those not in his year, hate his guts and Ed absolutely lives to spite people – he thinks the Ravenclaws need to collectively pull the sticks out of their asses.)

Of course, Lupin still badgers him with questions on Friday’s and is constantly done with Ed’s shit (especially now that Ed no longer pretends to be what he clearly isn’t), but that’s no surprise. They only have a few detentions left, not that the werewolf has managed to wrestle any useful information from Ed, who turns his brain off for that one hour each Friday. His half-brained responses to Lupin’s probing (“I’m Ed, I’m fifteen, and I never fucking learned how to read”) should warrant further detentions, but Ed is of the opinion that the man is ready to be rid of him as soon as possible. It’s reached the point where Lupin once spent half an hour with his forehead pressed to the chalkboard, taking deep breaths and mumbling to himself. Ed’s not entirely sure, but he has a feeling most of what had been said were threats to his person.

Snape somehow manages to become more of a dick than usual, getting snappish over nothing and terrorizing students to the point that Neville almost cries one class and Ed is one ugly sneer away from alchemizing Snape’s hair into a grease-fire (or at least, attempt to – he’s 63% certain he can pull it off, but he’s not Mustang, so there’s an unavoidable margin of error).

And on top of all the trivial inconveniences of being a student, he still hasn’t found Black, which is the real kicker. His thorough search of Hogsmeade during the holidays didn’t yield any results and now he’s back to constantly being watched by students and professors alike, so there’s no easy way to slip out of the castle without notice and it’s difficult to avoid attention on the weekends, when the majority of the student body also escapes the confines of the school.

He does ask the twins once more about the map, but they had given it to Harry shortly before the winter holidays, leaving Ed with no means of catching Black even if he does choose to attempt another break-in.

Where does that leave Ed?

 _Fucked_ , that’s where.

Ed bemoans the lack of progress that’s been made, never one to be sitting pretty. He hasn't really accomplished anything in his time here and he's starting to understand why Truth thought it'd take him years possibly to finish what they started.

Some things do change, and what a surprise it is.

Malfoy, while still unbearable and stuck-up in the way teenagers so often are, does start paying better attention during “the great oaf’s class” and is successful in avoiding any future attempts on his life via enraged mythical beast. (Buckbeak lives happily and freely under Hagrid’s care and Hagrid doesn’t attempt another class with the hippogriff at all.) In fact, Malfoy is a bit strange once he returns from the holidays. His posse is still composed of horrible bullies who look ready to hex a person for “daring to breathe the same air”, but Malfoy himself doesn’t go out of his way to instigate fights or verbal assaults (towards Harry in particular). While he may sneer or scowl or grimace at the prospect of tolerating a non-Slytherin’s presence, he holds his tongue far better than he ever had before. Maybe he’s growing up. Or maybe he's afraid Ed will make good on his promise and punch him again. Or maybe, he's beginning to understand that just because his reputation suggests he's unbearable, doesn't mean he has to live up to it.

Blaise also starts spending more time by Malfoy’s side once classes start up again. Not to say he hadn’t been hanging around him before, but now, Blaise actually bothers to make conversation and pay attention to the other boy, which he hadn't really ever done before, had he?

That’s what it seems like to Ed, who discreetly notices all the ways in which Malfoy and Blaise seem to be diverging from their original patterns of behavior. He’s probably only so focused on it because Blaise has been spending more and more time seeking Ed out, talking to him like they haven’t spent the majority of their acquaintance bitching at each other, and sometimes with an irritable and paranoid Malfoy in tow (only when there’s no one else around to spot them).

The one thing Ed _can_ say for certain is that Blaise is different now, like he'd suspected during that shared moment in the empty classroom over the holidays. There’s less of a show of his “affections” in front of others and Ed gets the sense that for once, he is able to get an accurate picture of who Blaise really is. That bizarre Slytherin affectation fades away over time and although there are some things Ed can tell Blaise avoids talking about to preemptively end an argument, Ed mostly just gets the impression that Blaise is truly trying to befriend him for some reason or other.

In his effort to do that, Blaise starts to “intrude” on time Ed spends with other people, albeit briefly and awkwardly before fleeing with what dignity he has left.

It’s not like Ed’s friends don’t know one another or get along. The twins regularly crash mealtimes at the Ravenclaw table and they’re already well acquainted with Neville to begin with. On the other hand, Neville and Luna are in the process of getting to know each other better, which is catalyzed by the times when one of them is with Ed and then the other happens to find and join them. There’s only been one or two instances where Ed’s friends have come together as a group and nothing had been particularly out of the ordinary during those times, even if Ed remains the reason they had come together at all.

But when Ed is with any combination of his friends and Blaise happens upon them, the reactions have been mixed.

Fred and George don’t like it at all and don’t bother to hide their distaste.

Neville is uncomfortable around Blaise and they blatantly ignore one another and only address Ed, not out of rudeness, but for lack of things to say.

And Luna, being the best, as she usually is, does her best to accommodate Blaise, but often leaves him confused and mildly worried about her sanity, although he’s smart enough to keep those thoughts to himself.

Ed doesn’t even know where to begin, because Blaise and Malfoy (and the rest of the Slytherins) do suck at times, but everyone acts like being a Slytherin is the equivalent of being a Death Eater, when Ed knows for a fact that there _are_ a few half-blood and Muggle-born students in said House – he’s counted – and on top of that, there are plenty of Slytherins who don’t go out of their way to snub people based on ancestry. And it’s not like they get to pick what House they end up in to begin with: that dumb-fuck Hat chooses for them.

It's not like Ed doesn’t understand where the reputation originates from. He’s been studying Riddle’s rise to power and ideology like he’s been possessed and he knows more than enough to begrudge Riddle for his enduring negative impression. Granted, Ed doesn’t like the majority of the Slytherins he’s interacted with (it’s that cursed Slytherin insincerity, he’s sure of it), but he also knows that this is probably how they were raised and they don’t know how to be any other way, because the students from the other Houses are only willing to see them as Dark wizards in the making. If no one is willing to give them the benefit of the doubt, Ed can understand why they’d turn to one another for support and ultimately end up fostering certain animosity within their insulated community.

There’s a vicious cycle – and it always seems to come back to cycles and circles for Ed – of upbringing and exclusion that’s been breeding resentment and hatred since Riddle first weaponized blood status.

And if Ed has been put here to deal with Riddle anyhow, he may as well get to work toppling his support system. What better way to ensure the demise of a murderous psychopath?

He already has a head start with Blaise and Malfoy, but it’s about time he knocks some sense into the other students. The main problem is that the Slytherins have made themselves as unlikeable as their reputation implies, a self-fulfilling prophecy, making it near impossible for Ed to think of actually sound plans for creating a sense of unity across Houses.

Maybe that’s asking too much.

A recognition that they are all products of their environments, then.

He’ll have to start small, so naturally, he starts with Luna.

“What do you think of Blaise?” Ed asks her one morning. She’s currently trying to decide on what type of marmalade she’d like on her toast.

“He’s got a royal nose. Do you suppose he’s descended from elven kings? I believe he could be, he has the right features for it.”

Ed snorts at the image of Blaise with a crown – it suits him all too well. “I meant more like as a person, what do you think of him?”

“He’s in spring,” Luna replies knowingly, “and I find it wonderful.”

 _In other words, she thinks he’s changing too,_ Ed translates to himself. Luna continues on her original position that Blaise may or may not be of fae-blood and she frets as she tries to recount if she’s ever explicitly introduced herself by name.

“They steal those, you know.”

“What about Malfoy?”

She’s not quite as fast to respond this time. “I think you’d find it difficult to sway him from the path he’s been on his whole life. But if anyone were capable of such a task, it’d have to be you, Fullmetal.”

The conversation stops at that point, because Ed opens his mouth to refute her claim and she presses a hand over his mouth and shakes her head.

“It’s you or no one. I can just tell.”

He doesn't argue with her about it.

* * * * *

Ed tries again with Neville, who is a little less sure of Blaise than Luna, but not willing to dismiss him outright.

“He’s not out for blood the way some of them are,” Neville explains when Ed broaches the subject with him, “but we don’t exactly have much in common. And,” he adds quietly, “I can’t say I’m a fan of Malfoy or anyone who affiliates themselves with him.”

“Do you think Malfoy might have had a chance to become less dickish if he’d ended up in another House?”

“The Malfoys have always been in –”

“I don’t care about the Malfoy’s, Neville. I’m talking about Malfoy.” A pause. “Draco. Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Neville thinks about it intensely, tries to work through the implications of Ed’s hypothetical question. “You mean like if he had been sorted into, say, Gryffindor?”

“Yeah. Or Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw. Just somewhere else.”

“I can’t even imagine what he’d be like if he were in any other House.”

They’re both silent for a while before Ed decides to push forward.

“I can.”

“What do you think then?”

Neville is watching him with a casual nonchalance that he wouldn’t have been able to fake at the beginning of the year.

“I think he’d finally have a chance to learn what an actual asshole he is.” Ed rubs his face tiredly. “Then maybe he’d eventually learn how to stop being one.”

“You’re thinking about all of them, aren’t you.” It’s not a question, it’s a testament to how well Neville understands the way Ed communicates.

“I am,” Ed admits. “I’m… concerned.”

“About the Slytherins?”

“Not exactly. More like, concerned for the future.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Ed thinks about his objectives in this reality and his impartial perspective on inescapable bloodshed. Should there actually be a war, losing a fourth of the next generation of wizards to Riddle could prove disastrous.

“If he comes back,” Ed says eventually, carefully choosing his words, “it’s better if he has less resources to depend on.”

(He momentarily feels as if he’s said something that reveals more of him than he’d like.)

Neville doesn’t bat an eye, but the trembling of his extremities gives him away. “I see,” he says, a slight quaver in his voice.

They don’t talk about it moving forward, but Ed can tell that Neville has committed what he said to memory.

* * * * *

Ed runs into the most resistance from the twins, but he can’t say he isn’t expecting it. Fred is outraged that Ed even questions whether Slytherins are evil or not, while George just looks disappointed that Ed wants to have a debate about it in the first place.

“They’re, it’s, and they’re, I mean, you can’t see…? _So_ pretentious, and like, there’s, I don’t even, I can’t, there’s You-Know-Who!” Fred rants incoherently as Ed tries not to grimace.

“Most of their families have ties with You-Know-Who, Ed. They grow up believing certain things and they aren’t ever going to change in that regard,” George translates helpfully.

“But don’t you ever think if you were raised to be a bigoted fucker, you’d like someone to tell you that you’re an asshole?”

“Well, yeah, of course _I_ would, but we’re talking about Slytherins here!” Fred yells.

“And they’re notoriously allergic to self-reflection,” George says.

“It’s not fucking helping that you’re all acting like they’ve already handed their souls over to Ri-, _‘You-Know-Who’_ ,” Ed retorts, barely correcting himself on the use of Riddle’s given name. The bizarre taboo on the moniker “Voldemort” is something Ed normally wouldn’t accommodate, but the name itself is so utterly tasteless that Ed only ever refers to the man as “Riddle” or as “You-Know-Who” to avoid strange questions.

Fred’s eyes are huge and round. “Mate, their souls _were_ given up the minute they were born into those families.”

“Trust us on this, Ed. They know exactly what they’re doing.”

“They’re _supporters_ , not victims.”

“And they believe it, you know.”

“My point exactly – thank you, George – they buy into that blood supremacy stuff!”

“And they might not be saying it as explicitly right now, when there’s a certain amount of political correctness related to the subject, but if the chance to segregate wizarding society were to make itself known, they’d take it without hesitating.”

“The only reason they haven’t been public about it _now_ is that they don’t have You-Know-Who here to pave the way!”

Ed rubs his temples, feeling the beginnings of a migraine. “Are you telling me that you don’t think there’s any possible way to change their minds, no chance at redemption whatsoever, when they’ve constantly been treated as villains, even those who’ve never even met You-Know-Who and just happened to be born into those families or sorted into Slytherin? That they’re definitely evil bastards even though they’ve never been told to shape the fuck up and be better or have any idea on how they can even start approaching that?”

The twins look properly chastised. Ed’s not a sympathizer in any case, but he is more than willing to play devil’s advocate if it will force people to see where the potential to fuck shit up is and fix it, fast.

“I am the literal poster child of fucking up and I’ve been fucking up my entire life, but I’ve been lucky enough to have people by my side who could keep me in check and tell me when I straight-up suck and when I need to do better.”

George elbows Fred slightly and the two of them exchange glances. Ed never talks about his life outside of Hogwarts or anything that could faintly be considered personal.

“And I’m guessing you guys have had similar people in your lives to help shape you into the people you are now. But Blaise? _Malfoy?_ The entirety of Slytherin? They’re fucking ostracized by the rest of the school and most of them grew up with families who have those poisonous fucked-up ideals because they grew up in that same shitty situation and none of them ever learn or realize that maybe, just maybe, the things they were taught to be the truth aren’t so true after all.”

He glares at them.

“I’m not saying you need to go on a campaign to befriend every Slytherin out there and teach them right and wrong, in fact, plenty of them fucking suck regardless of their stance on blood, but I think you need to realize that it’s not just them. From where I’m standing, as an outsider, a transfer I mean, I think there are plenty of kids from other Houses who suck just as much as the worst of the Slytherins, some of them even more than that. And I’m saying there’s a chance that underneath all that stuck-up bullshit, you’re going to find out one day that the Slytherins aren’t strangers, they’re people. Just. Like. You.” He clenches a fist. “And you know what? It’ll probably be one day too late.”

Ed doesn’t change any of their minds right away – he knows that’s incredibly unlikely, just as it would be for Malfoy or Blaise to make a 180 in their beliefs and actions – but he did tell them what he thinks about Riddle and his followers and the Slytherins.

He likes his friends and has started to care for them deeply, but he thinks they have room to grow, too.

Hopefully, they’ll come around soon.

* * * * *

He normally doesn’t sleep well anyway, but Ed starts to have even more nightmares, accompanied by unbearable pain in his automail ports, which he suspects is a direct result of being idle in brain and body. The nightmares are the same: images of Amestris, of home, of Al, waking up to find Ed gone, contrary to Truth’s promises. Or of Nina somehow knowing what Ed’s doing and asking what is taking so long, crying, the sounds distorted when made with a dog’s vocal chords.

It becomes bad enough that his friends begin picking up on it and commenting.

“You look like shit,” Fred says to him, unhelpfully.

“Thanks,” Ed answers, out of his mind.

“Something wrong?” George asks, shaking his head a little at Fred.

“Can’t sleep.”

“We already knew that,” Fred says, again unhelpfully. George pinches him on the arm this time and Fred yelps.

“Any reason why?”

Ed snorts. There are so many reasons he’s incapable of falling asleep and staying asleep, but none of them are reasons he can easily share with anyone. He probably wouldn’t even say anything to Al, if he were here and had been the one to ask. Some things Ed has to bear alone.

“Nope,” he lies, “absolutely no idea.”

He continues this way for another four days before Professor Sprout pulls him aside after herbology. Neville shoots him a worried look before continuing to his next class.

“Professor?” He hasn’t done anything wrong, he’s sure of it. He tries really hard not to inconvenience nicer professors like Pomona Sprout, who has a friendly, warm energy that Ed thinks perfectly suits someone who likes plants and cares about them.

“Edward, how are you doing?”

“I’m fine, ma’am,” he answers immediately, perfectly cordial.

She clucks her tongue sternly, looking very much like a concerned grandmother. “Quite frankly, my dear, you look terrible. I’ve had dying plants that looks healthier than you do at the moment!”

He rubs his eyes and blinks rapidly to soothe his dry eyes. “I’m just a bit tired, Professor. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m your Head of House, I’m sure you already know, and it’s my job to worry.”

Sprout gives him a once-over and upon deciding the most reticent Hufflepuff she’s ever had under her care will likely abhor discussing his current state of mind or whatever he’s struggling with, she reaches out and holds one of his hands between both of hers.

Ed freezes, unsure of what is happening.

“Edward, I hope if you’ve been having a hard time lately, you’ll find someone to talk to. You’re, of course, always welcome to knock on my door, but anyone will do. It isn’t good for one’s health to bear the weight alone.”

“Uh, I –”

“Just keep it in mind, alright, dear? You have friends here who care about you and professors who are here for the sole purpose of helping you. Hogwarts can be a home if you give it a chance.” The last part is said while scanning his face for any reaction, but Ed doesn’t know what to say or how to feel about that sentiment.

“I’m not sure I’m allowed a home here,” he blurts out. He curses himself the instant he realizes what he’s said aloud.

“Oh, Edward,” Sprout says, not with pity, but with surprise, “everyone should have a home, whether that is a place or a person or a thing.”

 _I do have a home,_ he wants to say. _My home doesn’t exist here._

“It’s somewhere else,” he says instead.

She smiles, warm like sunshine and baked bread. “Perhaps you’re taking me too literally, dear. I am not saying you must relinquish your home to find one here. But I think you’ll agree that you’re preventing yourself from developing roots, because you’re worried about what that means for what you call home right now.”

_Al, in his seven-foot-tall glory and echoing pre-pubescent voice. Winry with her handkerchief and heavy-handed smacks on the head with her favorite wrench. Granny and her horrible smoking habit and unsolicited but much needed wisdom._

“You can have more than one home, Edward.”

_Neville with his budding confidence and big grins and kind heart. Loony and her interesting perspective on life and her all-seeing eyes. George with his tendency to fret and at the same time, make sarcastic quips. Fred with his promise to cause chaos wherever he goes. Blaise and his attempts to change._

“But if you want to call this place yours, you'll need to be open to it.” She squeezes his hand. “Do you think you might give Hogwarts a chance?”

“I’ll try,” he answers, head ducked, avoiding her gaze.

“Good boy,” she says brightly, before letting him go.

He walks off in a daze, both from lack of sleep and with the out-of-the-blue perceptiveness with which Sprout had picked up on his troubles.

Because he _has_ been worried about how involved he’s become, when he’d originally promised himself to remain detached and objective for the sake of his assignment. But it's already been five months and he is not only not getting things done as quickly as he'd like, but also tackling larger sociocultural issues he hadn’t intended to deal with.

And he has _friends_ here.

Even more paralyzing is the innocent thought that he has a _life_ here.

It had occurred to him randomly one day as he had made plans to catch up with Neville that he’s integrating into a world he doesn’t belong in. A world he's already sworn to give up from the moment he stepped into it.

It unsettles him.

If he starts to think of Hogwarts as home, what would Al think? What would the Rockbells? Or even Mustang and the rest of his unit?

He doesn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning as he lies in bed.

* * * * *

His last detention with Lupin happens towards the end of January and neither party could be more excited to get rid of the other. Ed, in particular, is looking forward to the days where he can stop avoiding Lupin’s attempts to trip him up into admitting anything about himself.

“Edward,” Lupin says, exhausted. “It seems we’ve reached the end of our time together and you’ve managed to evade every single question I’ve asked you.”

“Yeah,” Ed answers, not listening.

 _The full moon is on Sunday,_ Ed thinks as he takes in Lupin’s disheveled appearance. He’d reread many of the books and papers regarding lycanthropy after he’d realized that Lupin is a werewolf and he is pissed off by the stigma in wizarding society. Worse is the fact that Snape clearly _knew_ about the entire situation, had to have known how students would react if they’d found out, and had meddled with Lupin’s lessons hoping someone would recognize his condition.

Lupin is going through the motions half-heartedly, asking questions he already knows Ed isn’t planning on answering at all.

“I understand you aren’t fond of personal questions, but I mean no harm, Edward.”

It slips out because Ed is short-tempered and is running on three hours of sleep over the last two days and he’s been ruminating on Snape’s off-putting behavior and the less-addressed prejudice-of-sorts against Slytherins he’s now trying to fight against and the human potential to be better or worse with the right influences and how he’s been here for months and nothing is getting done the way he’d normally be doing things because everything has to be subtle and that’s entirely at odds with his personality and –

“Aren’t you fucking tired of this bullshit?”

Lupin is taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

“Tired, aren’t you tired of all of this _bullshit._ ”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain a bit more than that, Edward.”

“You’ve been hounding me since the first detention and I already told you then that I wasn’t going to answer anything, but you wouldn’t leave it alone.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘hounding’ per se –”

“I’m _not_ in league with Sirius Black, I’m _not_ a fucking Death Eater, and I’m _not_ here to mess with Harry Potter in any way, so you can stop bothering me with these thinly-veiled attempts to figure me out.”

“What are –”

Ed doesn’t want to deal with the one-sided interrogation any longer, so he deflects. “You should get some rest, _sir_ , you have a long weekend ahead of you.” He shifts back into his faked politeness and watches Lupin’s pale countenance somehow turn whiter. It might have been an asshole way to say it, but Ed doesn’t have it in him to care at the moment.

“How, I, I don’t, I don’t know what you mean,” Lupin says unconvincingly. He struggles to disguise his surprise (and his panic).

“If you want my opinion, you should probably hex Snape whenever you get a chance. He’s the one who assigned that particular topic in October and I think it’s pretty clear what his intentions with that were.”

They’re both avoiding saying it aloud, but they both know what topic it is.

“You’ve known. Since October?” Lupins replies weakly.

“Well, yeah, since around then.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” None of his students had acted any differently since the start of term, so Lupin is inclined to believe Ed hadn’t mentioned this… little detail. Ed himself had never acted any different in that time either.

“It’s not their business to know.” Ed shrugs.

“I think you’ll find most wizards would disagree.”

“And I figured if anyone is as tired of wizards and their habit of sticking their noses where they don’t belong and judging people for things outside of their control as I am, it’d be you.”

“You speak as if you aren’t one,” the werewolf says softly. “A wizard.”

“Different upbringing,” Ed answers. It’s technically not a lie. “Haven’t had to deal with this as much prior to this whole Hogwarts adventure.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Like I said,” Ed says, face obscured by his hair, “I’m fucking tired.”

Lupin doesn’t know what to say. Ed looks ready to pass out, now that he’s had a chance to properly look at him.

“Are you alright?”

Ed laughs sharply. “The full moon is in two days and you’re asking me if I’m alright?”

Lupin winces slightly.

“Someone has to,” he says. “You look like death warmed over.”

_How accurate._

“I’m fine,” Ed says instead. When Lupin levels a disbelieving look his way, he corrects himself. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re certain?”

“I am.”

There’s a tangible awkwardness, where Lupin hasn’t ever had to deal with students finding about his lycanthropy and doesn’t exactly know what to say or do, particularly with a student as strange and deviant as Ed.

“Alright then. I suppose we can end here.”

Ed grabs his belongings and is quick to leave, but Lupin stops him just before he reaches the door.

“And Ed?”

“Yeah?”

Lupin looks directly into his eyes. “Thank you.”

Ed assumes he’s referring to his discretion on the whole werewolf ordeal. “It’s not a problem.” He leaves.

Once the door shuts, Lupin feels as if he breathes for the first time since Ed had revealed what he knew. He’d been afraid that this time would come, when his condition would be found out and he’d be forced to leave one of the best jobs he’s had since finishing school. But he’d been stunned by the casual manner in which Ed talked about it and the knowing way he’d talked about wizards and their prejudices.

Ed had been wrong when he thought Lupin’s motivations for thanking him involved his silence. He had thanked him not for his discretion, but for his distinct lack of fear or pity or hatred.

He thanked Ed for making him feel like a human and not a monster.

Lupin hadn’t ever dreamed that this odd, foreign boy could prove to be radical and disruptive to the status quo in a positive way, but he thinks that given the right opportunity, Ed could truly become a force to be reckoned with.

* * * * *

Two weeks of insomnia and narrowly avoiding insulting and infuriating the people around him, Luna finally decides she's had enough and he needs to talk, whether he likes it or not.

"Fullmetal," she says, her voice grave and her eyes upset. "What's on your mind?"

He hadn’t stopped having those same nightmares of his family and his friends claiming he’d abandoned them, which are only made worse by Sprout’s well-intentioned but incredibly stress-inducing advice on homes and how they come to be.

“Nothing,” he says defensively. It’s almost rude, how blunt he’s being, but it’s been getting harder and harder for him to hold back, to play the part he knows he has to, and he’s started to lash out thoughtlessly. It’s like everything has been building and he’s bursting at the seams.

He’s unsure. He’s worried. He’s afraid.

“I’d prefer you didn’t lie to me,” Luna says.

“I’m just tired.”

“Why? The Feinfeys get you?”

“No,” Ed answers. “I don’t think that’s it.”

She persists, despite his reluctance to discuss the matter. “You’re distressed.”

He refuses to confirm it.

“Am I allowed to know why?”

_Fuck, she always knows._

He still doesn’t say anything out loud.

“You know,” she says softly, “my mother died when I was younger, a bit before I started Hogwarts.”

“I didn’t know,” he says.

“She was an incredible witch. She quite liked experimenting with new spells and I’d seen her create a lot of unbelievable things in the time I had with her.”

The only person who knows he’s “orphaned” is Neville, but Ed doesn’t put it past Luna to know that information in her unnaturally intuitive way.

“It’s hard to lose people. It’s even harder to lose people you love.” She turns to face him. “Who did you lose?”

Coming from any other person, Ed would be offended at the frank question. Instead, he just says it plainly: “Everyone.”

She’s momentarily surprised by his answer, but then her face settles into understanding. “And it's bothering you that your life is continuing without them."

"Yeah," Ed says. "That's exactly the problem." 

_It's more complicated than that,_ he thinks, _because my life is continuing with them_ for now _, but I need to get back as soon as I can._

"When my mother died, everyone told me that grieving is a five step process that ends after acceptance. But even once you've accepted it, it's not like you can forget." She stares into space. "You never forget the people who make you feel like you're home."

Ed hasn't stopped thinking about Sprout's suggestion that he open up and give Hogwarts a chance. “Why does accepting it feel like I'm betraying them?"

_Why does living a life while I'm stuck here anyway make me feel guilty?_

"We want the best for the people we love and care about. Living without them makes it feel like we are neglecting their memory or the space they occupied in our lives. But you know what? The people you love, love you back, and they know -" she turns to stare at him "- that you remember them. That you love them and that you care, even when they're not here. Especially you, being more stubborn than any other creature known to man."

She pats his arm. "Whenever you'd like to talk about it, I'll be there once you're ready."

Ed watches her walk away after providing him with the affirmation he needed to get over himself.

He did say Luna is the best: this just proves it.

* * * * *

Time passes and Ed hasn’t made much progress on his main priorities, but he's no longer conflicted by the idea that he'll be in this reality for longer than he'd initially planned to be and that he isn't a horrible person for trying to make the best of an awful situation. He's accepted that he won't be seeing Al or anyone else any time soon, but as Luna had rightfully reminded him, he's never going to forget what he came here to do or forget the promises he's made to them first.

In regards to his current plans, he’s at least managed to impress upon his more reluctant friends during this time that _perhaps_ , a change in mindset is in order. Neville had been quite contemplative on the whole issue and Fred and George had been more serious about further discussions on the issue than they’d ever been about anything else.

Blaise is… trying. He slips up now and then and Malfoy is even worse, casually referring to people as “mudbloods” until Ed cheerfully explains why that pisses him off and what he’s willing to do to help Malfoy remember to hold his tongue in the future. Malfoy starts to phase certain words out of his vocabulary directly after said conversation. (Everyone thinks Malfoy is a bit off recently, but they’ve never seen him around Ed as the Slytherin is still very careful about protecting his reputation.)

The bigger issue about this ongoing side project is that Ed isn’t exactly one for socializing, and while it’s great his friends have come around on some of the problematic things on “their” side of the current state of wizarding affairs, he knows it’ll only really be affective if he’s capable of ~~manipulating the rest of Hogwarts~~ creating widespread change. He’s not sure how to go about doing that when he literally cannot tolerate the majority of students and their constant rumors and their penchant for fearmongering.

They _still_ think he’s some tattooed delinquent who’d been to Muggle jail or whatever else they’ve been saying about him these days.

He has too many irons in the fire. What started off as a somewhat sketchy deal to get rid of Riddle and recover three objects has deviated into pretending he’s a student and untangling the complicated mess and history behind the fire Riddle is fueling and chasing after leads like Sirius Black who may or may not prove useful and thinking of ways to ensure no one has to die for everything to settle down. All of this he has to do behind the scenes, instead of crashing into it like the cannon ball he’s earned a reputation for being.

He’d have never believed there’d come a day he misses being the Fullmetal Alchemist, but such is life.

And so it goes, until Ed catches Sirius Black in mid-February.

Or he thinks the dog is Sirius Black.

It _might_ not be Sirius Black.

But it _is_ a dog.

And it’s a black dog, just like in his memory.

And it is the first dog he’s come across since he started testing this theory out.

It’s wet and miserable out when Ed makes his way to Hogsmeade, as he does every weekend he’s allowed. No matter how awful the weather is, Ed can be found outside of the castle on both Saturday’s and Sunday’s, which he claims to his friends is a direct result of his lack of reading material and they accept as the truth, because they all know too well how insane Ed gets over research.

He’s about an hour into searching when he stumbles across that ginger cat with a squashed face from before running an errand.

“Running an errand” because it has a carefully folded piece of parchment paper clasped in its mouth as it trots off, its every action brimming with almost human intention.

The sight of it is so bizarre and bemusing that Ed trails after it, the cat none the wiser about its new shadow, and the pair wanders deep into the surrounding forest before the cat ultimately stops, drops its prize, and lets out a horrific meow.

“ _What the fuck,_ ” Ed says under his breath as he watches the cat… _waiting_ for something. For someone?

His patience and stealth are rewarded by the approach of a large, black dog.

In stark contrast to the healthy and clean appearance of its accomplice, the dog has ratty, matted fur and looks a touch too thin to really be intimidating, despite its size. The dog and the cat seem to have a silent, animal-only conversation, where the cat cocks its head to the side and taps the scrap of parchment, before wiping its face with its paw. The dog, in turn, ducks its head, as if to show gratitude, and picks up the offered gift between its teeth. The dog whines briefly and the cat blinks, once, twice, and then leaves with a disgruntled meow.

_Well, it is a big black dog…_

Ed can’t say for certain if the dog shows any human intelligence the way McGonagall does when she’s a cat – if anything, the cat seems to be the more intelligent of the pair – but he’s desperate enough at this point to risk looking insane; the worst that could happen is that he’ll embarrass himself in front of the dog.

There are many ways he can deal with the potential threat of an unregistered Animagus that is also an escaped convict, including turning him over to official authorities and waiting for confirmation that this dog is indeed Sirius Black. But there would certainly be paperwork and testimonies and other aspects of bureaucracy that will raise a lot of questions about Ed that he’s never going to answer and that will also inevitably drag on as the authorities try to actually do something for once.

Ed’s never been very patient.

He stuns the dog as it turns to makes its leave, parchment still firmly clenched between sharp teeth. It collapses instantly, and Ed is left standing in the middle of the forest with a stunned dog, possibly a murderous madman, and a piece of parchment that has a bunch of literal nonsense scrawled down. He pockets the list for later inspection and stares down at the unconscious animal at his feet.

There’s only one place Ed can think of where he could hide a dog (person?) long-term.

He casts a Disillusionment charm on the unconscious animal and then levitates it, heading in the direction of the Shrieking Shack.

* * * * *

The Shrieking Shack is something of a Hogwarts (and Hogsmeade) ghost story, rumor being that it’s one of the most haunted buildings in the country and that most of the villagers reported hearing the sound of screams at some point in the last twenty years.

(Ed is confident that he is scarier than any ghost, ghoul, or other imaginary creature lurking in the abandoned building.)

He enters the ramshackle building without any problem, setting the still unconscious dog down on the dusty wooden floorboards of what must have been a living room long ago.

Based on what Ed has seen of McGonagall’s transmutations and on things Ed himself has read, it’s possible that the dog, if it really is Sirius Black, has a wand on his human form and Ed doesn’t want to know his chances against a wizard who likely won’t fight fair. (He’s confident he’ll win, but the problem is he’s absolutely positive he’ll need alchemy to do so. What would the point of a trump card be if he were to reveal it so early on?)

“Incarcerous.”

The dog’s limbs are tied together by thick coils of rope that fall from the tip of Ed’s wand. 

“Rennervate.”

The dog blinks awake and growls when it lays eyes on Ed.

“Rise and shine, asshole,” he says.

It barks.

“Right, forgot.” 

He twists his wand and prods the dog with the tip, none too gently. He murmurs the string of Latin intended to return Black to his human form – assuming, of course, this dog actually is Black.

The pitiful creature lying before him shakes, from its head to the tip of its tail; the dog convulses and its fur stands on end in waves as the dog bursts out of its own skin, as if it were too big for its own body.

Ed claps a hand over his mouth, the familiar taste of bile skirting the back of his throat as he watches the fur recede and turn into a mop of dirty curls on the head of a scrawny, grey-skinned man dressed in rags. The tail disappears and the paws elongate into bony fingers. The man’s hands and feet are still bound tightly with rope, and now, his gaunt face turns to face Ed’s.

As if the transformation weren’t enough to send him over the edge, Sirius Black’s hollow eyes look exactly like the ones on his mother’s reanimated corpse.

Ed is down on all fours in an instant, retching on the dusty floorboards. The sound of Truth’s non-existent laughter rings in his ears. 

“Didn’t think I smelled that bad,” Black croaks.

Ed looks over at the escaped convict, who has pushed himself up into a sitting position, watching him with wary eyes.

“You definitely need a shower,” Ed responds, wiping his mouth with the back of his glove and getting up. “But I’m guessing no one was willing to shelter a wanted man.”

Black’s right eye twitches. “And here I was hoping you were just some little kid getting off on torturing animals.”

“Who’s little?” Ed snarls, grasping the front of Black’s rags, but stops himself from completely losing his temper.

_Not the time, Fullmetal._

He keeps a firm grip on Black as he begins going through his pockets, looking for a wand.

“Hey,” Black says hoarsely, struggling feebly against his restraints, “don’t –”

“Shut up.” Ed continues searching. “Where’s your wand?”

“What wand?” Black laughs darkly. “Haven’t had one in twelve years.”

Ed isn’t one to take a criminal at his word, but he also doesn’t find anything on Black’s person that can even remotely be considered a weapon. If anything, all Ed learns is how unhealthily thin the man really is. He lets go of his robes and Black slumps back against the wall.

“You’re way too fucking young to be pulling shit like this,” Black says.

“Shit like what?” Ed glares at him.

“Shit like tracking down a wanted criminal on your own, kid. A wanted _murderer_.”

Ed forces himself to ignore the liberal use of the word “kid” and laughs, the sound bordering on cruel. (He wishes he didn’t have it in him to be cold-blooded, but there are things he left behind in his childhood home to be burned to ashes for a reason.)

“You think I’m afraid?” Ed asks, twirling his own wand with deft fingers. Even without it, he is better prepared for a fight than Black seems to think him capable of.

“You should be afraid,” Black corrects him. The haunted look returns to Black’s face, made worse by the combination of deep bruises underneath his eyes and his prominent cheekbones. Ed is compelled to step back unsteadily. Not out of fear, never out of fear, but because he’s familiar with the man’s expression.

He used to see it quite often, after all.

Reflected back to him in the bathroom mirror of the Rockbell house, when he was eleven years old.

He steels himself, shaking the threat (or is it a warning?) from his thoughts as he approaches Black.

“I have questions,” Ed says, showing all of his teeth as he crouches in front of the man, “and lucky for me, you have all the answers.”

Black’s eyes dart from Ed’s face to his wand, which is pressed lightly against the man’s jugular. “I don’t have answers.”

“No point in lying, Black. I know you’re a Death Eater and I know you’re looking for Potter.”

The convict shudders, before writhing against the ropes wrapped tightly around him. “You don’t fucking know anything,” he snarls, the abrupt change in demeanor startling Ed, although he manages to hold his ground.

“What don’t I know? You got Potter’s parents murdered and now you’re back to off him. Why else would you be breaking into schools –”

“You think I want to be breaking into Hogwarts and running from dementors just to get a god-damn glimpse of my godson!” Black roars this time, struggling furiously against his bonds. “You think I want to live letting the people I love think that I would _ever_ fucking betray James and Lily?”

“Godson?” Ed repeats dumbly. The word echoes in his ears. 

Black stills for a moment, as if it’s only very suddenly occurred to him what he had said moments prior, breathing heavily against the strain of the ropes. He allows his head to drop when he’s calmed down. “Godson,” he confirms quietly. 

Ed swallows thickly. This is not the picture that every other member of wizarding society had painted for him, this development was not mentioned at all. 

“Okay, back the fuck up. What happened twelve years ago?”

At first, Black refuses to state his version of the truth to a complete stranger, especially such an odd teenager who somehow had known who he was in his Animagus form. But when Ed insists he might as well, otherwise Ed might just report him to the Ministry of Magic and let it slip that Black also happens to turn into a dog, the man reluctantly shares a story about four school friends that ends with betrayal, murder, and scapegoating, while Ed sits stone-faced, his back against the opposite wall. 

When all’s said and done, Black looks nostalgic and pained. They sit across from one another, both deep in thought.

Ed considers Black’s motives and entertains the possibility that the man hadn’t completely spun some yarn to fool Ed. There isn’t any evidence Black can provide as proof of his story, unless he somehow manages to get in contact with the last living member of the four friends. Black hadn’t mentioned any names or defining characteristics and Hogwarts didn’t have any public records of past students.

 _Maybe a professor might know?_

There are several professors who come to mind, who would have been old enough to remember when Black had been a student, but all of them are probably highly suspicious of Ed so it’s unlikely they’ll be willing to provide him with any answers. If he were to start asking questions about Black now, Ed can imagine he’d wind up in Dumbledore’s office faster than Mustang can burn a man down to nothing.

There is one other professor who might be able to help Ed out.

Remus Lupin looks to be approximately the same age Sirius Black is currently, and according to books on wizarding education, there really aren’t many choices for where a child could attend school. The majority of wizards in this country and the surrounding area attend Hogwarts, meaning it’s likely Lupin and Black had been at school around the same time.

Ed scowls as he tries to think of the best way to confirm Black’s story. “How can I verify what you’re saying is true?”

The maybe-falsely-accused convict lets out a bark of laughter. “Kid, do you think it’s that easy? I’d have given an arm and a leg years ago to tell people the truth and have them believe me.”

Ed’s metal limbs lock in place at the most unsettling combination of words he’s had the displeasure of hearing; it startles a hiss of pain from him and he grabs his right shoulder, kneading the scarred skin around his port in an effort to self-soothe. It barely works; his arm joints loosen slightly, but remain rigid and uncomfortable against his actual flesh. Ed curses.

“You’d what?” His voice trembles and he swears again internally at how visibly affected he is. 

“Give an arm and a leg,” Black repeats, glancing at Ed curiously. “It’s an expression. Means you want something badly.”

Ed lets out a shaky breath. _What kind of sick joke is this?_

“...not your first language?”

“How can I possibly trust you?” Ed shuffles away his depressive thoughts for later when he’s alone (and he’s certain they’ll make an appearance in his nightmares) and doesn’t deign Black’s prying question with a response. “You said even your remaining friend believes it’s you who sold Potter’s parents out to Riddle.”

Black’s eyebrow raises at the use of Voldemort’s given name, but Ed is so absorbed with his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice. 

“I can prove that I wasn’t responsible for the twelve deaths that night,” Black says. 

That gets Ed’s attention. “How?”

“All that was left of that rat bastard was a finger. A finger. And they thought it was enough proof that I was the one who murdered him and the other eleven who died,” Black says. He laughs without restraint, but the sight of him, mouth open and curling at the corners is anything but happy. It’s bleak. “But the real reason they didn’t find the rest of him is that he’s still alive and in hiding.”

“How the fuck could he be in hiding without anyone finding out?”

Black’s eyes glitter beneath the curtain of limp hair. “How the fuck did I escape and hide from the authorities without anyone finding out?”

There’s only three seconds of confused silence before Ed realizes what Black is saying.

“He’s an unregistered Animagus.”

“You’re quick, kid, I’ll give you that much. Three guesses as to what animal,” Black says, the most alive he’s been their entire interaction. 

“A rat,” Ed says, the gears in his brain spinning so fast he can practically hear them.

Black smiles, his teeth bared in a wide grin that splits his face into a weird patchwork of emotions. Ed, in turn, rubs his left hand over his face and through his hair, the stress of the situation beginning to get to him.

“Were all four of you unregistered?”

“Not all of us,” Black answers, almost absent-minded in the way he stares off into the distance. “But most of us.”

“Where’s the Rat Bastard now?”

Black blinks rapidly a few times as he pulls himself back into the conversation. “At Hogwarts,” he says, “and once I find him, he’s dead.”

There’s a finality in Black’s voice that destroys any possibility of keeping him out of jail in the future.

“ _Shit. Fucking shit, why can’t anything be easy?_ ” Ed mutters. 

He had caught Black in search of information on Riddle (and to teach him a lesson about trying to murder a child), but now he’s pulled himself into a mess of personal vendettas and secret identities and Harry fucking Potter, which is the last thing he really needs when he’s trying his best to lay low. (Although his notoriety at Hogwarts is anything but.) 

And he still doesn’t have the necessary information to go in search of Riddle’s Horcruxes.

Ed returns his attention to Black when he feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle. The man is staring at him with an annoying intensity.

“What?” he snaps.

“I don’t get it. I keep thinking about it and there’s no way you could have known that the dog was me, unless…” Black trails off. His voice is subdued, sad even, as he continues. “Unless he told you.”

_He?_

Ed resists his urge to strangle the man. “You’re going to have to be a little less cryptic. Who’s he?”

“R-, Moony.” A pause. “Moony,” Black says a second time, sure of himself. “The bloke who’s still alive.”

“Moony,” Ed repeats, letting the stupid nickname roll off his tongue _._ A number of variables in his equations have been filled out with that revelation alone. “What the fuck.”

“What?” Black is the one to snap this time.

“What. The. Absolute. Fuck.”

“What!”

Ed points a finger at Black. “You must be Padfoot –”

“So he did tell you –”

“– and James Potter must be Prongs, because with the literal nicknames being used, I’m assuming the rat is Wormtail. Wait, what kind of animal was Potter then? More importantly, what kind of animal was _Moony_?”

Black slams the back of his head repeatedly against the wall. “I can’t believe he fucking told everything to some random kid –”

“Moony didn’t tell me shit. I don’t even know who Moony is.”

Black blinks languidly, the emptiness in his eyes filling with what any other person might call hope. “You don’t? Then how do you know about the –”

“The Marauders Map,” Ed cuts him off. “I’ve seen it.”

“That’s still around? Who has it?”

Ed might be willing to admit there is a pretty good chance Black is not the murderer and betrayer he’s believed to be, but he’d be the dumbest soldier alive to name targets to a potentially crazed killer.

“They have it because they’re always up to no good,” he answers vaguely.

Black gives him a long-suffering look and Ed’s reminded of Lupin for a moment. “Who’s being cryptic now?”

“Hey, I can give them weird ass nicknames like you did to the people you talked about, but it’s not really going to make a difference, is it?”

“Who even are you, kid?”

Ed is now staring at Black like he’s an idiot, because he is an idiot. “You’re asking that _now_?”

“In my defense, I didn’t think I’d be telling my ‘sob’ story to a brat like you. So, I repeat. Who the fuck are you?”

Crossing his arms, Ed decides to go the “less is more” route. “No one you need to worry about.”

“That’s extremely worrying, you realize?”

“That’s the idea.”

Black collapses against the floor, limbs still tangled up in rope, and groans loudly.

* * * * *

Ed and Sirius, since he refused to be called Black and Ed refused to use what he considered a dumb nickname (like Padfoot), end up having to call a truce, because Ed isn’t completely sold on Sirius’ innocence and he needs more time to confirm his narrative and in the meantime, he can’t leave Sirius “unleashed”, so to say.

The man takes to calling Ed all variations of “kid” and “shorty” and other infuriating names poking fun of his stature in hopes he’ll be able to annoy a name out of Ed. It almost works too, but Ed can almost hear Mustang’s haughty voice making fun of him for giving up important information so easily and decides he’ll keep his mouth shut even if he ends up killing Sirius for the incessant jabs.

The stilted but necessary conversation that follows the initial interrogation and misunderstanding is quite informative, albeit not about anything Ed had wanted to know about originally.

Talking to the troubled man about things other than his vendetta against the Rat Bastard, Ed can imagine what Sirius might have been like had he not been wrongly accused and incarcerated for such a long time. There’s a sarcastic humor underneath all that hurt, as well as the hint of an ego worn down by years of imprisonment. In the right mood, Sirius has an almost manic energy and won’t stop talking. (Ed suspects the non-stop chatter is a symptom of having been without human contact for too long.) He’s a bit quicker to smile or let out a snort of unbidden laughter now than in their first few minutes of acquaintance, but beyond the short-lived bursts of happiness, Sirius is very clearly weighed down by a burden he’ll never be able to set down or forget.

Ed gets the feeling that Sirius might be the only wizard he knows who can understand the special brand of agony that Ed has endured in his admittedly short lifetime.

Because one of the first things Sirius talks about when they reluctantly call the truce in the first place is Azkaban (what it was like there, how he survived, how he escaped – the dirty details essentially), mostly because Ed is curious and Sirius is willing.

“When it’s dark, I think sometimes that I’m stuck there again, and I hear the screaming and the crying as if I’m still there and I feel that there’s this tangible madness in the air.”

Ed listens to Sirius’ tormented words intently.

The man sucks in a deep breath. “I used to think it was probably the leftover happiness. Like a scar. I don’t think that’s how dementors work, but sometimes I imagined that when they were ripping the will to live out of other people, something gets left behind, something lingers in the air, like the stench of a body that’s been dead too long.” He closes his eyes. “That’s what the madness was.”

_Inhale for four seconds._

_Exhale for eight._

“Is.” He corrects himself. “It’s still here.”

Ed knows the feeling. Different from the darkness experienced in Azkaban, but a darkness all the same. Ed’s madness thrives in the sound of cruel laughter that’s never there and disembodied grins that are too big and too full of teeth. It haunts his nightmares in the form of chalk circles and black sludge with beady round eyes and limbs that aren’t attached to a body the way they should be.

Ed’s madness is being here at the threat to a little girl’s life.

Sirius claims he got lucky being unregistered, because it meant he could find a certain degree of comfort as a dog, a luxury he absolutely wouldn’t be afforded as a human.

“Dementors can’t suck the happiness out of you when you’re less than human,” he says, his expression blank. 

Wanting to distract Sirius from (rightfully) wallowing in the complicated layers of trauma built up over the last dozen years, Ed starts to ask questions about what his current plans are.

That’s how Ed and Sirius devolve into squabbling like actual school children, both of them forgetting themselves in the heat of the moment.

It’s strange to see the ways in which Sirius is immature and naïve, because his life had been put on pause when he was incarcerated at such a young age. Just like Ed’s failed human transmutation forced him to grow up too fast in some regards and not enough in others, Ed notices the ways in which Sirius is simultaneously an adult and a child: he’s wary and skeptical and careful, but in the same breath, will be irresponsible and foolish the way people in their early twenties learn to grow out of through “real world experiences”. He’s caught somewhere between child and adult, with his physical appearance belying his mental age.

Exactly like Ed.

(He’s a kindred spirit, Luna would probably say.)

The bickering largely occurs because Ed is at a loss for how to convince the living, breathing human adult in front of him that the best course of action is to NOT continue breaking and entering until he finds the Rat Bastard and to NOT kill the Rat Bastard for framing him and betraying Lily and James Potter.

“That’s the worst plan anyone on the face of this earth could have come up with. Have you ever heard of a thing called strategy?”

“Kid, I don’t fucking need strategy! Lady Justice is on my side!”

“Lady Justice isn’t going to save your hide when Dumbledore and every other fucking adult wizard at Hogwarts, with a wand, might I fucking add, find your dumb ass wandering around looking for the son of the man they think you got killed!”

“I won’t _need_ saving, my plan is flawless!”

“Correction, your plan is FLAWED and you’re an idiotic bastard if you think I’m going to turn you loose to get yourself killed. Dementors, remember? They’re everywhere and everyone is on edge, because you _already_ tried this stupid shit and you were _already_ seen, so _literally_ everyone is on the lookout for _you_.”

Silence.

“I still stand by it.”

Muttering under his breath, Ed slaps a hand over his face and drags it down. “ _Fucking dumb bastard with his stupid flair for the dramatic._ ”

“What did you just call me?!”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You just said something in a different language!”

“Your plan fucking sucks!”

“It does not!”

“I can’t even begin to explain how fucking idiotic you sound right now. How old are you? Five?”

Sirius splutters angrily. “You’re one to fucking talk, shorty!”

“I’ll fucking murder you, shut the fuck up! I AM NOT SHORT.”

“Ha! You’re shorter than any goblin I’ve ever –”

Sirius doesn’t get to finish his sentence, because Ed knocks the man over with a well-placed boot on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi y'all!
> 
> thanks as always, for reading and for kudos/comments/subscribing! :o)
> 
> thanks as well for bearing with me on this chapter, it took me longer than i would have liked but it's finally done!
> 
> i'm trying to get ahead on chapters so that i can eventually post once every two weeks, but it does take me longer to write chapters (i am trying to keep chapters roughly 10k words each time), so the update plan (to update on the 13th) probably won't change for at least a few more months
> 
> as always, you can come find updates/talk to me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com) :o)


	8. edward elric and the prisoner of azkaban become friends (thank Someone out there for emotionally-constipated adults)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed and sirius fight constantly. what else is new?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth and happy pride month
> 
> black lives matter  
> stay healthy and stay safe

He fully intends to leave Sirius in the Shrieking Shack, chained to the wall.

“Not saying I don’t trust you,” Ed explains as he snaps the (alchemy-made) manacle around the man’s ankle, “but I definitely don’t trust you.”

“You can’t leave me here,” Sirius says.

Ed gives the man a Look. “I can’t exactly take you back to Hogwarts with me, can I? But I also can’t let you go in good conscience.”

“You _can’t_ leave me here,” Sirius reiterates. He tugs desperately on the length of chain keeping him trapped. “It’s fucking dangerous!”

Ed snorts. “You really believe those ghost stories?”

“No,” Sirius says grimly, “I just _know_ something about this place that _may_ result in my death and that’s _entirely_ at odds with what I would like to happen at this point in my life.”

Ed can’t help himself from rolling his eyes at the attitude in Sirius’ words, but he does notice the trace amount of trepidation in his prisoner’s demeanor _._ “What is so terrifying that you think you’re going to die?”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s, you, you wouldn’t understand, I can’t say, I just, you can’t, kid, I’m, I’ll die here. I will _die_ here. What day is it?”

“What? I didn’t understand any of that.”

“What day is it!” The man is fully freaking out now, Ed realizes. He’s yanking on the shackle to the point Ed thinks he might chew off his own leg to escape and nervously glancing about the ramshackle building as if something will emerge from the shadows to eat him alive. It’s a level of panic that Sirius hadn’t even bothered with upon his initial capture.

“For fuck’s sake, you need to calm down.” Ed grabs Sirius’s wrists and forces him to sit still while he thinks through his options. Sirius struggles uselessly against his grip.

The man obviously has issues (that was clear from the very beginning) after having been incarcerated for over a decade. Ed ~~believes~~ can’t say he does or doesn’t believe the things Sirius has told him up to now, but he does get the sense that Sirius doesn’t have enough mental energy to be making up wild accusations that conveniently absolve him from blame. Also, what kind of evil mastermind is stupid enough to break into Hogwarts when everyone there thinks of him as a traitorous murderer?

“Look, you used to be a student, right? Where else can I leave you unattended?”

Sirius looks incredulous when he realizes Ed is sincerely considering his feelings, most likely because that hasn’t happened to him in twelve years. “There’s, fuck, there’s only one other place I can think of.”

* * * * *

Sneaking a wanted criminal into Hogwarts is precisely the kind of dumb shit Ed should not be doing, but he’s never one to back down from a challenge that is wholly self-imposed and completely unnecessary. At the very least, he has the sense to demand Sirius become a dog for the attempted relocation.

It’s not much easier sneaking an animal (that is not a Hogwarts-approved pet) into a castle that’s constantly watched by somewhat alive paintings and ghosts that wander the halls. (Filch is probably the only person other than Dumbledore who knows exactly what is and isn’t sentient.) And yet somehow, Ed is brash and bold enough to attempt doing so in broad daylight, dragging Sirius by the scruff of his neck to the seventh floor of the castle, without leaving any witnesses.

Sirius had only given him brief directions to the new location shortly before Ed forced him to return to his Animagus form. Standing now in an empty corridor, Ed starts to doubt Sirius’ insistence that there is a reasonable hiding place other than the Shack.

 _Three times_ , he thinks as he approaches the stretch of wall situated across from the surprisingly beautiful painting of a portly man dancing with trolls.

_I need a place to hide Sirius Black._

_I need a place to ~~hide~~ lock up Sirius Black._

_Fuck, I fucking need a place to lock up Sirius fucking Black!_

Ed’s about ready to knock the man (currently dog) unconscious again when nothing happens, until he notices the beginnings of a door etch itself into existence.

When the door is fully formed, and none too quickly for Ed’s tastes, he enters, with the criminal in tow, to a relatively small room, rather similar to the military dorm rooms he and Al would rent out whenever they’d make an appearance at Central. Clean, tidy, and only the bare essentials in terms of furniture and bathroom. There’s a metal bed frame pushed against one wall and a light source affixed to the ceiling. Thankfully, there’s also an open door revealing a tiny bathroom that’s far from luxurious, but perfectly functional.

Ed notes with satisfaction that there are no means of exit: no windows at all and no door, since it had melted out of sight the moment it had shut behind them.

Finding no immediate fault with the magic room, he fixes the shackle around Sirius’s hind leg once more and attaches the rest of the chain to the bed. With only a violent shudder as indication of Sirius’s transformation, Ed turns away as the dog turns human once more and clenches his fist hard enough that his nails leave little crescents on the palm of his glove.

_Hydrogen, helium, lithium, …_

When Ed finally turns back, Sirius is sitting on the edge of the bed, eyeing him curiously.

“Kid, are you always so squeamish? You did that the first time too, and that time, you already knew what was coming.”

Ed grimaces when Sirius’ words evoke the unwelcome image of a dog ~~transmuting~~ transforming into a human. “Fuck off, it’s disturbing to see.”

Sirius gives him a weird look, but then shrugs it off and turns his attention to the bed. “Haven’t slept on one of these in a decade,” he mentions offhandedly.

“Oh.”

It’s awkward watching Sirius try to be human again.

Ed doesn’t harbor any ill will towards the man anymore, which he isn’t sure is a good or bad thing in the moment. On one hand, at least he doesn’t (hopefully) need to worry about Potter getting fucked over by yet another adult in his life, but on the other hand, maybe Ed is getting soft and Sirius is a fucking liar and five months out of the military is long enough to give Ed a personality change. (He tries to recall the last time he was called insufferable and decides his personality couldn’t have changed too much.)

“Do you need this?” he says in an attempt to change the topic, holding out the folded list of nonsense from that moment in the woods. (God, that feels like it happened a month ago.)

Sirius glances at the list, deliberates, and then shakes his head. “You can keep it.”

Ed pockets the parchment and makes himself leave before his social ineptitude gets the best of him. The last thing he needs right now is to end up saying something stupid. “Okay then, Fido, be a good boy and next time I’ll bring you a treat.”

Sirius growls, but the sound is at odds with the spreading grin on his face. “Fuck off, runt.”

The Room recreates the door, allowing Ed to leave.

“If you let him out, I’ll burn you to the ground,” Ed warns it once he’s outside.

He doesn’t receive a response, but he thinks the door might have disappeared a touch faster than it had before.

* * * * *

Ed can barely believe what he’s gotten away with, until he realizes Hogwarts doesn’t have an excellent track record for keeping its students in line (namely, the twins and their shenanigans _and_ the 100% extremely not-kid-friendly events Harry, Ron, and Hermione get involved with each year).

It’s been a little overwhelming trying to keep up with everything and Ed feels like he barely has time to catch his breath, let alone deal with the rest. He thought things were already busy enough when he just had Truth’s dirty work to accomplish, but now there are the added complications of Sirius being entirely unpredictable and the next generation of wizards potentially continuing a cycle of violence and hatred.

When he closes his eyes at night to pass out from exhaustion, Ed isn’t even allowed the decency to just see darkness, he has to imagine the Hallows, Riddle’s ugly mug, Sirius, the Slytherins, his friends, his family, Amestris… the list goes on.

His recent nighttime behavior – avoiding the dorm room and lurking in the common room instead of sleeping – is not ignored by his dorm mates this time around. He only finds out when Mr. Prefect (or should he call him Mr. Perfect?) corners him while he’s rereading a book on magical laws and regulations for the fourth time.

“Hey Ed,” he says with a charming smile, sliding into the armchair angled to face his.

“Hey…” Ed trails off when he realizes he can’t remember the prefect’s name.

“Cedric,” the Hufflepuff supplies, the smile not fading one bit.

“Cedric,” Ed repeats. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, you can,” he says and Ed raises an eyebrow at the unexpected answer. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

He snorts because he can’t help himself. First, Sprout, now this. “I am,” Ed answers curtly.

“When, exactly, are you getting this sleep? Because I’ve heard from several people you’re already out of bed before anyone else, and Ernie says he gets up at six every morning.”

“At night,” Ed deadpans.

“Right,” Cedric agrees. Ed is the tiniest bit annoyed that the other boy isn’t bothered by his obvious attempts to get on his nerves. “But it’s currently almost three in the morning, so you’re not technically sleeping at night either, are you?”

“Every time I blink it’s like I’m sleeping for one second,” Ed explains, as if he actually believes the crap he’s saying, “so it all adds up and I’m basically sleeping eight hours.”

Cedric blinks, startled by the answer. “But I think, er, Ed, don’t you think it’d be better to actually get some rest? Or at least visit Madame Pomfrey if you’re having trouble falling asleep.”

Ed shivers involuntarily. He’s been going to all of Pomfrey’s mandated appointments in relation to his automail and if he’s being honest with himself, she’s scarier than Winry when it comes to maintenance, and she doesn’t even have a wrench to smack him with. Just a thin wooden wand that makes his metal arm and leg tingle as if they can actually feel something like pain.

“I’m fine,” Ed says reflexively. “I sleep enough.”

Cedric had stopped smiling a while ago, but now his eyebrows furrow severely.

“You can come to me if you have a problem, Ed. Any time,” the prefect insists and Ed believes him. It’s just that Ed wouldn’t go to anyone with a problem even if he were dying (and boy, doesn’t that attitude piss Al off to no end).

“I know,” Ed says. “Thanks, Cedric.”

The other boy can hear the dismissal in Ed’s tone and he gets up to leave. He gives Ed another smile, a very worried one at that, before bidding him a good night and heading for bed.

It doesn’t end there though, and Ed hadn’t really expected it to, given Cedric’s reputation. Cedric Diggory is Hufflepuff’s pride and joy, athletic and kind to everyone – no one has a bad thing to say about him. Except for Ed, who finds Cedric’s efforts to greet Ed whenever he runs into him frankly insulting and patronizing. Each time he tries to make small talk about Ed’s day or other mundane things like the weather or the next Quidditch match, Ed can’t stop the scowl from developing on his face.

“You can stop now,” Ed says. It’s been a bizarre week of encountering Cedric nonstop after having not seen him at all since his first night at Hogwarts.

“Stop what?” Cedric’s confusion is genuine.

“Stop whatever you’re doing. Did Sprout put you up to this? You can tell her I’m fine. I swear. I’m in perfect health.” The lie is so familiar he barely registers saying it. Ed doesn’t mean to sound as rude as he’s coming across, but he’s not comfortable and he hates being vulnerable.

“No one put me up to anything, Ed.”

“Are you sure? The timing of all of this is pretty fu-, uh, it, it’s pretty suspicious.”

Cedric smiles. “It probably does seem suspicious,” he agrees amicably, “but I think your dorm mates only recently felt they needed to interfere regarding your lack of sleep, which is why I got involved then. But you didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t want to pester you, so I left it alone. Me saying hello or asking about your day, however, is just me being friendly, Ed. It’s not related.”

Ed is always defensive about his health, his sleep habits, his entire life really, which is why he wishes he could hate Cedric for being a kind and polite person without any ulterior motives. However, he knows, without Al chiding him, that that is 100% asshole behavior. He also knows he’s a paranoid fuck, even more so now than at the beginning of the year, and that’s why he’s taking Cedric’s sincerity so badly. With the timing, who could really blame Ed for suspecting their Head of House for putting him up to it?

“Sorry,” he says and he means it. “Not used to it.” His terse response doesn’t hide the way his entire face colors from embarrassment. He just accused one of the nicest people ever of being a manipulative asshole, because of his own issues.

_You’re acting like a kid, Fullmetal._

( _You_ are _a kid, Brother._ )

Cedric doesn’t ridicule him for it though, because he really is a genuinely nice person. “No worries, I’m glad we’re on the same page now.”

From then on, Ed doubles his effort to be friendly whenever Cedric stops him to chat, even if his version of friendliness is not quite on par with the other boy’s. When he’s interacting with Cedric, Ed might even be considered approachable by the rest of the student body, although they don’t test that theory out.

Luna is of the opinion that he should socialize more with the other Hufflepuffs anyways, but she doesn’t ever actually say that to him in words. Regardless, she’s pleased by his brief conversations with Cedric and considers it to be progress.

“It’s nice to have friends in your House,” she points out.

“Sure,” Ed responds sarcastically. “Friends.”

She scrutinizes him, before lifting an eyebrow, as if to say, _Did you even think about anything I said?_

“I know, I know.”

“Practice makes perfect,” she says simply. _Getting along with people takes practice_ , she means.

“I know!”

She laughs at his disgruntled expression.

* * * * *

Ed has to use any spare moment alone to return to the strange room and tend to its even stranger occupant.

Each time he returns, he brings food from the kitchens (freely and eagerly given by the house elves), which Sirius scarfs down. The former convict begins to fill out, his bones no longer jutting out of his skin and a healthy flush returning to his cheeks. At Ed’s insistence and with the much-needed aid of daily showers, Sirius finally smells less like decomposing corpse and more like a functioning member of society. (“You don’t have to shower in –” “If you finish that sentence, I will kick your ass _back_ to Azkaban.”)

During the first few visits, Sirius asks about people he remembers from his school years between mouthfuls of food, an odd assortment of names that he lists off and looks at Ed expectantly, as if Ed should automatically know what happened to “Casper Zhang” or “Clementine Wallace”. More than anything, Ed suspects Sirius is slipping the names of people he actually wants to know about into a flood of other names, so that Ed is unable to get a good sense of who he’s actually affiliated with. Which, taking into consideration that the man had demonstrated a complete lack of common sense when they first met, is surprisingly crafty.

Eventually, as Sirius begins to run out of names to throw Ed’s way, there comes a day when he looks off in the distance before speaking again, as if he were far away. “Do you know of a man called Remus Lupin?”

“Did you have to say it all so dramatically? Lupin’s been teaching at Hogwarts since the beginning of the school year. He's in the same damn building as us this very moment.” As he walks across the room, his leg suddenly locks up and he stumbles over his own feet, face first onto the floor.

“Need some help, kid?” Sirius says with a smile; he gives no indication that he’d help Ed at all.

“Asshole,” Ed mutters as he sits up. “Just like Lupin,” he adds, annoyed.

When he finally looks up and catches a glimpse of Sirius’s unguarded expression, Ed pauses, stunned. Because Sirius is fully smiling, as warm and free as a smile from a haunted man could be, only partially obscured by the messy beard.

“Why’re you smiling like that?”

The smile falters and then disappears entirely.

“It’s just nice to hear he hasn’t changed.”

* * * * *

Even though Ed begins to thoroughly enjoy Sirius’ company, spending time with him is adding years to Ed’s life, not only because the man is almost Ed-levels of insufferable, but because the twins are constantly on his case: he’s having to expend more and more energy trying to evade their notice.

“Where are you going?” Fred pesters him for the eighth time that week.

“We’re meeting Lee soon, if you want to tag along,” George says.

Lee Jordan is a fifth-year Gryffindor that Ed has gotten to know through the twins. Lee’s bright personality, coupled with his quick wit and penchant for mischief, perfectly explain why Fred and George have been friends with him since their first year at school. Ed likes Lee well enough, but doesn’t run into him quite as often as the twins, seeing as Lee rooms with Fred and George, and he spends a fair amount of time with other friends – Ed would go as far as saying Lee might be one of the most well-liked kids at Hogwarts, maybe even one of the most popular, barring Harry Potter. (Although, Ed can’t quite figure out if Harry Potter is “popular” or just famous.)

“Can’t,” Ed says in reply. He’s on his way to the kitchens and then back to the Room of Requirement to flesh out yet another tentative plan with Sirius. “Need to study.”

George raises an eyebrow.

“You can’t be serious,” Fred exclaims. “You’ve already read everything in the library, what could you possibly be studying?”

“There are exams coming up, you realize?”

“And you’re precisely the kind of bookworm who’d care about that, are you?”

“Obviously,” Ed retorts.

“Obviously,” George repeats skeptically.

There’s an awkward silence that lingers over the three of them. Ed clears his throat. “Like I said, I need to study. I’ll see you guys later, alright?”

Fred and George wave him off, watching Ed walk towards the Hufflepuff dormitory with narrowed eyes.

“He’s lying,” Fred says once Ed is completely out of view.

“Obviously,” George says again. “But more importantly, why?”

“You don’t think he’s got new friends or something, do you?”

“Don’t be thick, Fred, he’s not exactly the type to go about expanding his social circles.”

They start heading toward their agreed upon meeting spot with Lee, all while discussing Ed and his strange evasive maneuvering in the last few weeks.

“Maybe he’s actually studying.”

“He _is_ a giant nerd.”

“Right,” Fred agrees, “a giant, violent nerd.”

“ _Our_ giant, violent nerd,” George corrects him.

Fred smirks. “Now that I think about it, I don’t think ‘giant’ is a very good descriptor.”

George laughs. “It’s only accurate when used in relation to his bookishness.”

“Seriously, though, what’s up with Ed?”

“I dunno,” George shrugs. “I trust he’ll come forward about it when he’s ready.”

“But are we really going to wait? Maybe he’s just getting sick of us…”

George admonishes him, “Do you really think _Ed_ is the type of person to avoid a person he dislikes?”

They both think of Malfoy and the Punch and their first meeting down by the lake.

“He’s the type of bloke to say he hates you to your face,” Fred muses.

George nods. “And spit on it as he leaves. He’s not the type to tiptoe around the issue, so I don’t think we need to worry about it. He has his reasons.”

“And he’ll tell us when he’s ready,” Fred says, repeating George’s earlier words.

They walk in companionable silence, thinking of the same instance without talking about it.

This particular line of conversation always leads Fred and George to thinking about the semi-argument about Slytherins and Dark wizards they’d had with Ed a while back and with it, the admission to his private life that Ed had shared with them. It hadn’t been much really, just an idea of what Ed thinks of himself and a better idea of how he thinks about the world, as well as a reference to his family that he never talks about. (Aside from George’s unconfirmed suspicion that something horrible happened to them.)

The twins, Neville, and Luna had actually secretly met without Ed shortly after he had confronted all of them, the first time they’d ever gathered without him there to keep them together.

“Did you guys have a weird conversation with Ed recently?” George asks. (He’s the one who organized the get-together.)

“What kind of weird talk?” Luna asks in return, genuinely curious.

“You mean about the Slytherins?” Neville guesses.

Fred snaps his fingers and shoots finger guns at him. “Got it in one!”

“Oh yes, about the likelihood of Blaise Zabini having fae-blood.” Luna smiles slightly at the bemused expressions on the boys’ faces. “Or do you mean Fullmetal’s preoccupation with the moral goodness of Slytherins?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘moral goodness’,” Fred says, snorting. He thoroughly enjoys how easily Luna throws people off-kilter – he wants to learn her ways, although he’s not too bad at it in the first place.

“I see,” Luna responds. “Then I suppose I have as well. Is this what the meeting is about?”

“Well, yeah,” George says. “Aren’t you, I mean, wasn’t it really odd? It came out of nowhere.”

Neville rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, not really? I can’t imagine Ed as the type of person to sit still if he doesn’t agree with something.”

“Right,” Fred says, “but he was talking about Slytherins as if maybe they weren’t the worst, despite what the evidence suggests.”

The corners of Luna’s mouth twitch downwards in disapproval.

“Ed had some valid arguments, though,” Neville replies, “and I think he’s well aware of why the Slytherins have that particular reputation to begin with, so it’s not as if he’s ‘on their side’.” He wets his lips. “I’ve given what he said a lot of thought and the more I think about it, the more I think… the more I think that maybe, _maybe_ , he’s not wrong. Maybe we are too harsh on the Slytherins. Given their backgrounds and their upbringings and all of the other things that make a person who they are.”

“Are you serious, Neville? They’re all stuck-up pricks, even to the ‘Puffs who are nice to literally everyone.” Fred groans and further dishevels his already mussed hair.

“Inter-house unity hasn’t been a big thing at Hogwarts since its creation,” Neville points out. “Students have been friendly, sure, but no one’s bothered to make an effort with Slytherin ever since, well, _you know_.”

“Isn’t that the idea though? You-Know-Who and his supporters are directly tied to Slytherin – there’s too much bad blood associated with it!” Fred argues.

“I’m with you there, I do think there is ‘bad blood’ in Slytherin, but Ed –” Neville cuts himself off.

“Ed what?” George asks.

“Er,” Neville hesitates for a moment longer and then gives in. “Ed said something that worried me.”

“What did he say?”

“Just… he mentioned, er, implied, I guess is a better way to put it?” A sigh. “He implied that leaving things as they are is only going to, to, er, going to be worse for ‘us’ in the long run.”

“Worse how?” Luna asks softly.

His voice is so quiet, the others strain to hear him. “Worse, should there be a war.”

George sucks in a breath, while Luna twists a strand of her hair around her finger so tightly, the tip turns purple. Fred gapes.

“He’s thinking about what will happen in case of war?!” Fred almost shouts, until George hisses, “Volume!”

“He didn’t exactly say that? He just kind of… suggested it would be better to be on friendly terms with the Slytherins now rather than later.”

“I suppose he said something similar to us, now that I think of it,” George says. “Something about finding out too late that Slytherins are just like us, deep down.”

They fall silent, the mood noticeably depressing and for very good reasons. As children of pureblooded families, all of them are familiar with the wizarding war that their parents’ generation had been involved in – the one that had seemingly ended with the whispered stories about the Boy Who Lived and was supposedly the last. They were taught to fear You-Know-Who growing up, learned it from their parents and their relatives, but no one had ever suggested that war would return to the wizarding world; no one had ever said that they should fear the near certainty of conflict that awaited their generation.

“He’s not wrong to suggest it,” Luna says. Her tone is uncharacteristically grim and serious. “We’d be foolish to believe that after the events of the last two years, You-Know-Who will leave Harry Potter alone.”

“But what are we supposed to do?” Fred asks. “We’re not even legally adults.”

“Neither is Harry,” Neville mentions, “but he’s been involved since he was a baby.”

“And Fullmetal has already given us a strategy,” Luna says. “Slytherins, historically, have earned a reputation for becoming Dark wizards. But what if they can be convinced to do the right thing?”

George contemplates her words. “It would mean there is a tiny chance that they wouldn’t grow up to become Death Eaters.”

She nods in agreement. “It’ll take time, but the best time to start is yesterday.”

Neville is the one to say it aloud, but they’re all thinking it. “Do you suppose that we can make a difference?”

“Well,” Luna says eventually, “we won’t know until we try.”

She smiles and the conversation is left at that.

* * * * *

In the time Ed spends in Sirius' company, between delivering food and fighting over who is more of an idiot (they both point fingers at the other), he learns more about Sirius and his school days, which are the last real memories of “normal life” he has left. Most of his stories are about the Marauders and the insane things they did simply because they could.

Like the ridiculously complicated process by which a person can become an Animagus.

Ed actually laughs aloud when he hears exactly what kind of dumb teenagers Sirius and his friends were, as Sirius recounts how long it took them to complete the portion with the Mandrake leaf.

“It has to stay in your mouth the whole month and the three of us kept messing up and losing it during mealtimes. Prongs swallowed his on the first attempt, literally minutes in, because he drank pumpkin juice too fast. And Wormtail ate his every single day for two fucking weeks before he managed to get a hang of it. Merlin, and the professors! Ha, the professors all kept asking why we started talking with lisps at around the same time.”

Ed likes to see Sirius when he’s smiling in the gentle, pleased way he does when he talks about his childhood friends. It’s in those moments he thinks Sirius forgets how everything went wrong shortly following their departure from school.

(Ed just wants to see evidence that someone who’s lived through the darkness can still come back to the light.)

“Moony was still a bit nervous and unsure back then, but I think that’s when he really started to trust us. When he watched us constantly fuck up the rituals but keep trying for his sake.”

_What?_

“What do you mean ‘for his sake’?”

Sirius flounders. “Er, I didn’t say that?”

“You definitely just did.”

“I did not!”

It clicks.

He had been suspicious before, especially after the weirdly affectionate smile Sirius had had on his face when he had asked about Lupin, but hadn’t commented on it, because he had known Sirius would have clammed up and refused to answer him. But right now? He’s certain he knows the truth and more importantly, he’s certain he’s never going to trust Sirius Black with a secret, even if they are the last two people in existence.

“I see,” Ed says in an uncharacteristically polite tone of voice. “Of course, you’ve mentioned before that all _four_ of you weren’t Animagi, but also mentioned two of your three friends as having gone through this bizarrely inconvenient process with you. Except for _Moony_ , since this was all ‘for his sake’, as you now deny saying.” His eyes settle on Sirius’ face, completely blank, causing the man to flinch. “Obviously, I’ve asked where the nicknames came from and you weren’t willing to admit the basis on which these ridiculous names were decided. But the three Animagi of the group were named for the animals they turned into, correct?”

Sirius doesn’t answer, unsure of where Ed is going with this.

Ed does his best to keep a blank expression on his face. “And of course, you wouldn’t be so _fucking_ stupid as to nickname your non-Animagus friend after a – oh, shall we call it a condition? - a _condition_ he has. A condition that is maybe highly, _highly_ stigmatized in wizarding society and has to do with the _moon_.” Ed now glares at Sirius, whose mouth is opening and closing rapidly as he tries to refute Ed’s pointed commentary.

“That’s, that’s so, ha! That’s fucking stupid, no, of course not, no way, _psh_ , Moony, he, he’s just, Moony was just really…” Sirius struggles to come up with a reasonable excuse. “…really pale?”

“Oh, yes, I’m so sure,” Ed says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “and I’m sure that the three of you decided to illegally become animals in your free time because Moony’s _paleness_ was really isolating and he needed help with it."

"He needed an emotional support animal?" A pause. He flinches. "Three emotional support animals?"

Ed physically restrains himself from strangling him. "You fucking dumbass! I'd yell at ‘Prongs’ and ‘Wormtail’ if they were here too, because what kind of imbeciles _give their friend a nickname that could potentially ruin their fucking life!_ "

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sirius deflects unconvincingly.

"Oh, that's fine, really fucking great, I'll just ask Lupin myself" - Sirius whips around to stare at Ed - "and I'm sure he’ll be happy to answer my questions in your place."

"Who said anything about Re-, M-, Lupin?!"

"Do you happen to know any other werewolves?" Ed asks. “Because I don’t!”

"You, I can’t believe, you, you, fuck, you said you didn’t know who Moony was!”

"I fucking didn’t!" Ed yells back. "I just connected the dots!"

"You didn’t connect shit!"

"I connected them!"

Thirty-eight minutes later, when Ed and Sirius are no longer shouting in each other's faces and are finally calm enough to have a reasonable discussion of what had just transpired, Ed speaks up first. "I've known Lupin was a werewolf since October? Yeah, that sounds right, I think – October of last year. There were a couple indicators and I just happened to find out. He knows I know and it isn't an issue - I really couldn't care less about it."

Sirius squints suspiciously. "Not a pureblood then?"

Ed snorts. "Not by a longshot, not that it matters."

Any person who tries that hard to protect a werewolf (who are considered second-class citizens at best by Riddle’s standards) is definitely not a Death Eater. On top of that, Ed can no longer imagine that the Sirius he has become better acquainted with is capable of betraying friends, especially if he wouldn’t (intentionally) out Lupin as a werewolf even over a decade later.

Ed rolls his eyes. "You realize if you had just used everyone’s names to begin with, we wouldn’t be doing this song and dance of ‘oh are you a lying, bloodthirsty killer or are you an idiot who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time’ like you said you were?”

Sirius flips him off with an irritated scowl. “Kid, I wasn’t just going to go about sharing names to a complete and utter stranger! For all I knew, you could’ve been some absolute psychopath who’d kill Moony or something like that!”

“You realize we, uh, I should probably talk to Lupin at some point, right?”

All of the tension that had bled out of Sirius’ body rushes back in as he hunches over. “I haven’t talked to Moony in twelve years, do you really think one brat is going to change his mind?”

“I’ll literally murder you,” Ed deadpans – the phrase is quickly becoming his go-to when dealing with Sirius. “But seriously” – the man snorts - “wait, fuck, no. But _really_ , don’t you think this would be a lot easier with Lupin’s help? I’m pretty sure he has the map right now. If Rat Bastard is in the building, that’d be the best way to find him.”

“I won’t drag Moony into this,” Sirius says after a while. “He deserves to live his life without me weighing him down.”

“So, he doesn’t know the truth,” Ed fills in the blanks. “Or at least, what you’re telling me is the truth.”

Sirius throws his hands up. “Kid, you’re killing me. Either decide you believe me and help me out or decide I’m a murderer and ship me off to Azkaban!”

“How’d you prefer to be shipped then? By owl?”

“Oi, fuck you!”

* * * * *

Determined to set things right (and catch a rat), Ed doubles down on his efforts to coordinate a feasible plan with Sirius that would ideally clear his name and also provide essential information to Ed. (He finally allows Sirius to remain in the Room of Requirement unfettered, stressing Sirius can’t do anything as stupid as leaving, for both his own sake and for Ed’s.)

“You’re sure the Rat Bastard is here, though?”

“I’m fucking positive, kid. There was an article in the Prophet last year, had a photograph of a family that had a pet rat missing a toe. And the bastard is missing a finger, remember?”

“I remember,” Ed says distractedly. “Do you know the name?”

“Of the rat?” Sirius says in a tone of voice that suggests he’s questioning Ed’s intelligence.

“No, of the family!”

“Oh, right,” the man says sheepishly. “It’s the Weasleys.”

Ed blinks, surprised. “Which one?” He runs through any conversation he’s had with Fred and George, trying to remember if they’d ever mentioned a rodent. He can’t remember any talk about rats.

“How the hell should I know?”

“ _Fucking hell_ ,” Ed grumbles. He drags a hand down his face. “That’s fine, at least I’ve got a general idea now.”

He thinks about the logistics of exposing the Rat Bastard.

“Alright, hear me out, what if you _don’t_ kill the rat and then you can get your name cleared? Have him testify and whatnot, since he’s not actually dead.”

Sirius scrunches his nose. “I’d rather just kill him.”

“Are you fucking se-,” Ed stops short, but Sirius grins.

“Were you about to ask me if I’m fucking Sirius? Because I’ll have you know I _am_ Sirius, not fucking him.”

“Are you always this damn impossible.”

“I try, but it’s not nearly as easy as it looks.”

Ed presses down on his eyes with the heels of his hands and gets back on topic.

“Okay, let’s say you do kill him. You’re now living up to be the murderer people think you are. Do you have anywhere you can go? Where you can stay hidden until your name is cleared?” Which, if he goes through with this half-assed plan, will be never.

Sirius rubs his eyes. “Technically? Yeah.” He grimaces at the thought of something, before continuing to speak. “My family home is currently empty and under a Fidelius, so I could go there.”

“Great!” Ed says. Finally, something is working out. “So go there.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “Kid, while I would absolutely love to, how the fuck do you suggest I do that? Apparating is a huge no, because that’s tracked by the fucking Ministry. I don’t have a broom and I highly doubt you’re capable of making a portkey.”

“How far is it?”

Sirius groans. “I dunno, it’s in London, in a Muggle neighborhood.” Ed is taken by surprise when Sirius shares the address. “12 Grimmauld Place.”

He commits it to memory and tries not to think about the implications of learning where Sirius’ house is.

“You’re the Secret Keeper then?”

“The rest of my family is dead, so yeah, it would seem so.”

_Well, I guess that’s just one more thing we have in common._

“Does anyone else still have access to the building?”

“They shouldn’t,” Sirius says after thinking about it. “Doesn’t change the fact that I’m not exactly safe until I actually make it inside.”

And that’s the main problem.

Ed runs through possible solutions before he settles on an option. He doesn’t love it, but he’s a bit limited in what he can do. “How do you feel about animals?”

“Is this another stupid jab about the Marauders because –”

“No, just answer the question!”

Sirius shrugs. “I like ‘em enough. Why?”

“I think I can get you a ride out of the school grounds.”

Hagrid had been considering rehoming Buckbeak following the winter holidays, as there had been a fair number of parent complaints about the attack that had occurred in class, and just last month, Hagrid had offhandedly mentioned to Harry (during class, while Ed eavesdropped) that he’s now tentatively looking for someone to take the hippogriff in.

“Jus’ worried that if there are any more complaints, they’ll want to do somethin’ drastic,” Hagrid had said.

This is apparently not the first time Hagrid has had to pass on his furry/feathered/scaled/etc. friends to other homes either, Neville explains to Ed, as Hagrid once had a dragon that he hatched himself, a three-headed dog that guarded the Philosopher’s Stone, a giant spider that Neville had only heard about through Harry and Ron, and now, a hippogriff (and those are only the creatures anyone found out about in the first place).

“Granted,” Ed mumbles, as he tries to figure out logistics, “I’m not exactly sure Hagrid would agree to it, so we might have to just take him without his permission.” Ed frowns; he doesn’t like the idea of removing Buckbeak without Hagrid’s approval, but he’s coming up short on other possible escape routes for Sirius.

“HAGRID!” Sirius shouts suddenly, startling Ed out of his contemplation.

“What?” he snaps irritably.

“Hagrid,” Sirius says, suddenly excited, “I gave him the bike, my motorbike, maybe he still has it!”

“Why the hell do you own a motorbike?”

“Why the hell not?”

“You’re telling me you want to drive out of here, possibly surrounded by wizards who can Apparate _and_ fly?”

“No, dumbass, I’ll be flying too!”

“On a motorbike,” Ed says in disbelief.

“On the motorbike!” Sirius affirms.

“Okay, back the fuck up, how will you be _flying_ on a god-damn _motorbike_?”

With Sirius’ surprisingly helpful suggestion of locating his loaned possession, the plan starts to come together in bits and pieces, with a lot of frustration on either side as Sirius keeps suggesting direct action that will, without a doubt, land him back in Azkaban, and Ed bluntly refuses to even consider. By the end of it all, they have a feasible, if a touch unrealistically hopeful, plan to not only find and expose Wormtail, but get Sirius to safety without risking his life. Much of the possibility of success depends on how quickly Ed can gather information and set things up, as Sirius is limited in his movements and ability to help beyond suggestions and irrelevant questions. (That is to say, he’s largely unhelpful.)

“Why are you doing this, kid?”

It’s a conversation Ed is surprised hasn’t come up sooner, especially as he still hasn’t said his name to Sirius (not as a safety precaution, just because he wants to fuck with him) or provided any explanation as to how he knew Sirius was an Animagus to begin with.

“I have an agenda,” Ed replies, “and getting rid of Ri-, _You-Know-Who’s_ supporters is helpful to me in the long run, even if it isn’t my original intention.”

Sirius quirks a brow at the slip-up, but doesn’t comment on it, instead scrutinizing Ed’s face. “What’s the agenda?”

Ed shrugs. “Just kid things – you wouldn’t get it, old man.” A bold-faced lie. It doesn’t help that Sirius knows how much Ed detests being referred to as a kid.

“You, agh, Merlin, fuck you! You know, it’s not really fair that you know so much about me and yet you’re still pulling this ‘I’m so mysterious’ crap,” Sirius complains.

“Not my fault you suck at keeping things to yourself,” Ed replies. “Can’t believe you’re your own Secret Keeper. Wonder how long that’ll last.”

He shoots Ed a withering glare. “Stop avoiding the question, kid.”

“I’m not avoiding anything, I’m actively choosing not to answer your question.”

“Can’t you at least give me your name?”

“No,” Ed snorts. This is probably the one-thousandth time he’s asked. “I’d rather not.”

Sirius grumbles. “Your parents must _adore_ having a wannabe vigilante at home.”

Ed is precisely the kind of person who cannot hide his emotions on his face unless he’s well-prepared for it and even then, he rarely feels the need to censor his anger or glee (usually only when he wants to fuck with assholes). Sirius mentioning his parents – well, he might as well have stabbed him. Actually, Ed would much prefer the knife.

“Rough time at home?” Sirius asks, trying for sympathetic and ending up in the ballpark of awkward.

“No,” Ed says.

“I’m sure.”

He doesn’t bother responding, as it’s clear Sirius has latched onto the topic and refuses to let it go.

“My home life wasn’t great either,” Sirius says eventually. “I was the first and only Gryffindor in a long, long line of unbearable Slytherin pricks and they didn’t take it well.” He snorts. “What a surprise.”

“It’s not like that,” Ed responds.

“Then what’s it like? Try me.”

“Fuck no.” He doesn’t want to talk about this at all.

“C’mon. Tell me!” Ed is somewhat used to Sirius’ childish ways, but this takes the cake. “Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me –” Sirius begins poking Ed “- tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me -”

“I don’t _have_ parents,” he says, just to shut him up.

What do you know? It works.

Sirius stares at him like he doesn’t know if he should try to comfort him or pretend nothing is wrong.

“This is about getting revenge, then?”

 _And he picks door number 2!_ Ed thanks ~~god~~ Someone out there for emotionally-constipated adults; he’s not in the mood to deal with the usual questions and pity or well-meaning but unwelcome sympathy. He rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says, “you can call it that.”

“Does your family not take issue with that?”

“They can’t complain when they’re no longer around.”

“But then… wouldn’t the people at the orphanage be worried about you?”

“What orphanage?” He’s genuinely confused – why would there be an orphanage?

Sirius stares back at him equally confused. “The orphanage where you live. Or whatever home took you in. Your guardians.”

“Oh,” Ed says, catching onto Sirius’ line of thinking. “I’m my own problem now.”

“You’re telling me that you have no family, no guardian, whatsoever.”

He nods stiffly.

“Kid.” Sirius looks ready to grab him by the shoulders and shake him vigorously. Ed’s glad he chooses not to do so. “You’re shitting me, that’s illegal. That’s fucking illegal! You’re probably what, eleven? Twelve?”

“Want to _die_ , bastard, because that’s what it sounds like!”

Sirius holds up his hands defensively. “Hey, you’ve never told me your age or anything, I just had to guess!”

“Just shut up, will you,” Ed snaps, his eye twitching at the thought of being perceived as an _eleven-year-old_.

“So, then, where… where do you live?”

“What?”

“You don’t belong to a group home or something? _Anything?_ ”

Ed makes a noise of frustration. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, but most of these developments in my personal life happened within the last year, so no, I don’t ‘exactly’ have a place to live and for the very last time, _no_ , I do not have any ‘authority figure’ in my life outside of school.”

There’s a brief moment where Sirius watches Ed curiously without either of them saying a word.

“You know,” Sirius starts slowly, eyes flicking between Ed and the corner of the room, “I wouldn’t be opposed to having company. Over the summer I mean.”

Ed stares at him.

Sirius continues. “I, er, I’ve been alone for twelve years and now I’m going back to the shithole that is my childhood home, so I wouldn’t mind having someone around. You know? Just so that I don’t, so it’s not boring? I reckon it’d be nicer having someone arou-”

“Are you asking me to come live with you?” Ed interrupts.

“Er, yeah, if you want to,” Sirius says. There’s an awkwardness that hasn’t been present since the first week they’d interacted.

Ed’s uncomfortable, because he hadn’t anticipated the invitation and he had been deliberately tight-lipped about his looming homelessness to his school friends because they didn’t really need to know. It’s his problem after all, and he’s perfectly capable of solving on it his own, especially since he has the means, specifically the money, to do so. He’s been able to take care of himself and Al for the last three years – he doesn’t need an adult now to keep doing that.

But he does trust Sirius now and he likes the man, despite the fair amount of growing up he needs to do. If he’s being honest with himself, Ed’s not used to being alone – he’s always had Al by his side, every step of the way. He might not need an adult, but maybe he does need a friend.

“You just offered to let me stay with you and I might be a psychopath,” Ed says.

“I mean I guess? I figured if you were really a psychopath, you’d have done away with me already or tortured me.”

“Maybe I’m just waiting until I can make you suffer the most. Make you think we’re friends and then stab you and watch you bleed out.”

“…Do you want me to believe you’re a psychopath?”

“No,” Ed says. “I’m just saying this is pretty risky on your part. You haven’t thought it out at all.”

Sirius shrugs. “I’ve lived a cursed existence for a third of my life, I reckon I’m entitled to living however the fuck I please. And you’re a good person who’s apparently homeless at twe-, at a young age, so why not offer? I’d rather not be stuck in that house alone.”

Ed forces himself to ignore the unintended jab at his height. “What makes you say I’m a good person?”

The man blinks. “You said Moony still works here, yeah?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, if you’ve known he’s a werewolf since October and he’s still working here, it means you didn’t tell anyone.” Sirius grins. “So you’re a good person. And good people are always welcome to the new and improved ‘Ancient House of Black’.” He adopts a rather pretentious accent to say the title.

“I mean, if you’re okay with it…” Ed says after too long a pause. He clears his throat. “I guess you’ll need someone around to feed you anyway, since you can’t leave the house.”

“Can’t you just say thanks like a normal person, brat?”

“Thanks,” Ed grunts, ears burning.

Sirius smiles. “No problem,” he says. “Do I get to know your name now?”

“Fuck no.” Ed grins.

Sirius flops down on the floor and lets out a long, exaggerated groan.

* * * * *

Things get easier as Ed dedicates less time to “studying” and more to being around his school friends, pretending life is normal once more; he no longer feels the compulsion to constantly drop by and check in on Sirius, now that he can trust the man to not fuck things up on impulse _and_ they have a plan they both agree with. In fact, after two weeks of searching at the crack of dawn, Ed has already successfully procured Sirius’ beloved flying motorbike in perfect working condition, albeit a tad dusty from being stored in the very back of one of the Quidditch storage sheds. (Ed’s perfectly okay with stealing the bike, because Hagrid either doesn’t care or doesn’t remember having the thing in the first place.)

Seeing as Ed also knows the truth about Sirius Black, he hasn’t felt the need to worry about Harry Potter or his well-being all that much. Neville mentions the so-called “Golden Trio” from time to time, as he rooms with both Harry and Ron. Through the Gryffindor, Ed has learned that Harry and friends have been bickering over the existence of some broom since the winter holidays and over the fact that their pets are not getting along – typical kid things, no alarming schemes involving Dark wizards at all for once.

This, of course, becomes more interesting to Ed once Neville clarifies that Hermione owns a particular squash-faced orange cat that has been antagonizing Scabbers, a rat that’s been with the Weasley family for at least a decade.

“I’m mostly surprised they didn’t think it’d be an issue before,” Neville says absentmindedly. “It’s not like Crookshanks would understand other people’s pets aren’t food.”

Sirius once mentioned that Crookshanks had been of help to him, because the cat could tell he wasn’t a real dog and now, Ed’s betting the cat could also tell that the rat isn’t a real rat. (The list that Crookshanks had given Sirius, Ed had later found out, was a list of passwords to the Gryffindor common room. He and Sirius had had yet another argument about his intelligence or lack thereof.)

Ed relays to Sirius that the Rat Bastard has been located, but not yet caught, as Ed has no real excuse to start talking to Ron or kidnap his pet out of the blue.

With the steady progress made in regard to Sirius and the Rat and the escape, Ed relaxes enough to have some days where he doesn’t even think about everything he has to do and the information he’s been made privy to.

The twins, while happy to be seeing Ed regularly once more, are dying of curiosity about Ed’s casual refusal to address any change in his behavior. He can tell Fred desperately wants to question him on the reasoning behind his recent lack of free time, but only just manages to reign himself in from badgering Ed. George is a much better actor, occasionally dropping nonchalant questions that Ed would have no reason to suspect if his twin brother weren’t literally vibrating with anticipation and impatience by his side. He lies, of course, but he feels a slight twinge of guilt each time he does.

Blaise becomes an ever-growing presence in Ed’s life and Neville must have taken some of what Ed said to heart, because the Gryffindor makes an effort to include Blaise when he’s awkwardly trying to figure out how to interact with any non-Slytherin that isn’t Ed. Even Fred and George are on their best behavior around Blaise, the rare occasions when they see him, which is saying something, because the twins aren’t even on their best behaviors for McGonagall. Ed starts to suspect his friends are conspiring with one another, but can’t find an ulterior motive for such behavior and accepts that his friends are learning and growing, just like he is.

The weirdest thing about life post-befriending-wanted-criminal-Sirius-Black has to be interacting with Lupin in the lens of their previous teacher-student capacity.

Ed spends most of his days in Lupin’s classroom debating the pros and cons of getting the man involved against Sirius’ expressed wishes. Each time, he ends up deciding it’d be a quick way to get Sirius actually pissed at him and make Lupin once again suspicious.

After his outburst during the last detention, Ed thinks he’s at least established a sense of mutual respect between them. He knows Lupin is still keeping an eye on him, but he’s no longer sure about the reasons behind that; Ed is willing to bet Lupin isn’t reporting to Dumbledore anymore, so there isn’t any very good reason to be watching him anymore.

 _At least he understands what it means to be discreet_ , Ed thinks when he catches Lupin staring at him for what felt like the tenth time that hour. _Unlike someone we both know…_

Sometimes Ed wants to laugh in Lupin’s face because he’ll remember how Sirius said Moony can’t eat salad without gagging but forces himself to do it “for his health” or that even though werewolves are dangerous and capable of harm, Sirius and friends had once watched a transformed Moony chase after a rabbit, run face first into a tree, and concuss himself.

He realizes he has too much access to private information that makes it harder and harder to differentiate the Moony who’d help the Marauders plan pranks so that they’d actually be able to get away with it (which makes sense, if Prongs and Wormtail were anything like Sirius when it comes to planning) from the raggedy, intellectual Lupin who wears sweaters with elbow patches and carries chocolate in the pockets of his robes.

It’d be nice if Ed could involve Lupin long enough to at least take the map off of him, because then he’d stand a chance of grabbing the Rat Bastard when Ron isn’t around, but even that feels like something Sirius would consider a betrayal so Ed just leaves it alone, like he had said he would.

* * * * *

When two months have passed since Ed and Sirius first met and Ed’s organized everything according to plan _except_ for the rat, Sirius starts to complain that things aren’t moving fast enough. Ed shuts it down immediately with the argument that he is the one doing everything and Sirius can’t really refute that point, so he sulks and whines, as adults normally do.

“When are you going to catch Wormtail?”

“Whenever I see the opportunity to. I’m not friends with the Weasley kid, so I can’t just walk up to him and ask him to hand over his rat, because it’s not actually a rat, but the dirty bastard who betrayed your best friend.”

“Why can’t you ask Crookshanks to catch the rat for you?”

“Are you stupid? I can’t talk to animals and I can’t turn into one either!”

“Maybe you’re just not trying hard enough,” Sirius says petulantly.

“ _How is it that I’m over a decade younger than you and yet it’s like you’re_ my _fucking child_ ,” Ed mutters.

“Ugh. AGH!” Sirius yells. “I can’t just sit around forever, kid, I need to do _something_!”

It’s an argument they always come back to, even after Sirius begrudgingly agreed to Ed’s plan (with the caveat that he would absolutely kill Wormtail given the chance). Sirius still thinks direct action would be the best option, while Ed does everything in his power to dissuade him. (Occasionally, Ed has flashes of what Mustang must feel like dealing with him and almost feels sorry for the bastard.)

“There’s nothing you _can_ do,” Ed stresses. “Sometimes you have to wait before striking.”

He thinks that’s the end of the discussion until he comes back to the Room of Requirement a week later and finds it unoccupied.

Sirius is gone.

Ed’s threatened it jokingly a thousand times, but this time he’s _serious_ : Ed’s going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, hey.
> 
> as always, thank you for reading + kudos/subscribing/commenting - i am always so happy to see other people are enjoying this story c:
> 
> this chapter was admittedly ed & sirius heavy, mostly because i got more time to develop ed's relationship with other characters over several chapters while i needed to move ed & sirius' relationship along within pretty much this chapter alone (it felt like writing the opposite of a platonic slow burn lol - what would that be called?)
> 
> i intentionally took out most strict indication of time in this chapter because i realized that the confrontation/reveal in canon happens in june and for some reason i thought it happened earlier. i am trying to make the timeline somewhat similar to the canon timeline (for this book at least) and am struggling to think of what took sirius so long to do what he wanted ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ so if you think there's a lot of vague mentions of planning in this chapter, that's literally why lol
> 
> as always, you can come find updates/talk to me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	9. it’s the great confrontation, edward elric!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "i'm not a regular walking disaster, i'm a cool walking disaster"
> 
> who said it?  
> a) edward elric and sirius black  
> b) sirius black and edward elric  
> c) both a and b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy “friday” the thirteenth! 
> 
> stay safe, stay healthy  
> black lives matter  
> trans lives matter

It takes Ed all of three days, filled with heated internal debate about his own values, to decide that if Sirius is willing to break a promise, Ed should have no qualms about doing the same — even if he can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s betraying Sirius’ trust in him by doing so.

* * * * *

“Professor, do you have time this week to discuss some of the material you covered? I didn’t really get it the first time,” Ed says.

Lupin stops organizing the papers on his desk to give Ed a bemused look. “You didn’t… ‘get’ it?”

There isn’t any material Ed hasn’t “got” for the entire year in DADA, let alone any of his other classes, and end-of-year exams are in ten days. Ed can see the way the gears in Lupin’s brain turn, can almost practically see the steam spilling out of his ears as he tries to figure out what Ed is playing at, which makes sense. Ever since their detentions together had ended, they’d politely avoided each other for obvious reasons.

“Yes, I didn’t understand it and would like to consult you on the matter.” He wields his politeness as a weapon, making it incredibly difficult for Lupin to turn him down without a good reason.

The professor looks alarmed, maybe even scared. His eyes wander to the left of Ed’s face, taking in the last of the students lingering in the classroom.

“It’s about the _new_ material,” Ed clarifies. _It’s not about werewolves._

Lupin picks up on the hint, thankfully. “Ah, I see,” he says, relaxing minutely. “I suppose I’d be able to make time tomorrow afternoon, if that would work for you?”

“That’s fine, Professor,” Ed answers brusquely. “I’ll see you then.”

He leaves as abruptly as he had approached and Lupin is left with less than twenty-four hours to fret about what Ed could possibly want from him.

* * * * *

Ed is already waiting rather impatiently for Lupin in his empty classroom, pacing the length of the room with all of the frustration of a caged animal. He’s tried to work out an explanation for everything that had transpired since Ed had first caught Sirius, but every reasonable truth and fact about the matter sounds insane, even to Ed, which is why he decides he’ll just have to improvise.

_You’re the fucking Fullmetal Alchemist, you can do this._

When Lupin walks in and spots him wrestling with his agitation, he pauses. “Edward?”

“Oh, good, you’re here.” Ed has enough of a sense of humor left in him to gesture to the front row. There’s a trace of a smirk on his lips as he says, “Please take a seat.”

The tension in Lupin’s shoulders fades and the corners of his mouth turn upwards ever so slightly. “I do hope you weren’t asking for a moment of my time simply to get revenge for the detentions.”

“That’s not really my style,” Ed says. He can feel his ports throb, not painfully, but almost as if they’re reminding him of their existence. “But this is going to be a fucking mess, I’m telling you that right now.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

Ed runs his tongue along the front of his teeth, an irritated twitch to his eye. “This is about Sirius Black.”

The effect is immediate: Lupin turns rigid in his seat and his hands curl into fists, which Ed decides is done more to hide Lupin’s trembling than it is about anger. That’s a good sign, at the very least.

“What,” Lupin says after a few moments of tense silence, “about Sirius Black?” His tone is polite, disinterested, but in too calm of a manner to be anything but fake.

Ed internally applauds the man for having an incredible amount of self-control, especially considering the influences he had growing up. (Sirius could stand to learn something from his friends.)

“Just. Just listen to everything I have to say before running off, okay?” He glares at Lupin, who takes a moment to consider Ed’s words before nodding slightly. “Great. Good, this is good. Probably.” A grimace. “Maybe. Fuck.”

At first, Ed can’t seem to get the right combination of words out no matter what he tries, because he isn’t about to explain how he just “happened” to know that Sirius could turn into a dog or that he’d been looking for the man well before their detentions together had ended. But then he reaches a point where he stops trying to pull a Mustang and says the plain truth of the situation; he tries (and fails) to be objective about the events leading up to now, where Ed is missing both a dog and a rat.

Lupin, for the most part, doesn’t visibly react to anything Ed says; not when he explains the truth behind the Potters’ deaths, not when he clarifies that he’d been hiding Sirius in the castle, and not when he mentions he’d been involved in the creation of a new plan.

“— and he said he’d listen to reason even though that was a fucking _lie_ , because now he’s fucked off to who-knows-where —“

“He what?” It’s the first time Lupin has said anything since Ed had started ranting about Sirius’ sudden disappearance.

Ed scowls at the memory of the empty Room of Requirement. “He fucking left when I told him not to do that!”

“That… that sounds like something he’d do,” Lupin mutters to himself, pressing a hand to his temple. He almost looks worse than he does in the days leading up to the full moon. “And you haven’t seen him since?”

Ed wants to slam his head against a desk. Or the wall. Or maybe he should throw himself out a window and end his dealings with wizards forever. “Why the hell do you think I’m talking to you?”

“Yes, you’re right.” Lupin takes a moment to visibly compose himself, keeping his face carefully blank, although Ed notes the way his fingers twitch slightly. “You have to realize that this is a lot of information to process, Edward. Even if… even if Si–. Bl–.” Lupin struggles to choose a name to call his old friend. Eventually he decides. “Even if… Black were telling the truth—”

Ed stops him with an irritated flick of his hand. “I believe him, I’m just also of the opinion that he’s short-sighted as hell in regard to all of this talk about avenging the Potters and whatever else.”

“You believe him,” Lupin repeats, his forehead wrinkling with concern. “Si–, Black has always been rather masterful in his ability to, ah, ‘bullshit’, as you called it. Isn’t there a possibility that he was able to conjure up some believable lie in order to take advantage of you?”

“You haven’t gone racing to tell Dumbledore so I’m inclined to believe whatever act this is.”

“It’s not an act,” Lupin objects. “Black is dangerous, he, he’s a wanted _criminal_ , he’s—“

“Are you really going to pretend you doubt him when it’s been fucking obvious from the start that you don’t think him capable of betraying his friends?”

At this point, Ed would have to be an idiot to not have noticed the way Sirius talks about Lupin or the way Lupin now tiptoes around talking about Sirius. They were once the best of friends and Ed is not nearly dumb enough to miss the wistful manner in which Sirius would reminisce about small moments by Lupin’s side and the bright way he’d smile when referring to him as Moony.

The familiarity, the genuine care for another person’s wellbeing, the simple amount of attention given in how Sirius describes Lupin: it’s all there in the way Lupin talks about Sirius too. There’s the hesitation to refer to him by his given name, despite the way that name rolls off Lupin’s tongue so naturally in comparison to the stilted emphasis on his use of “Black”. It’s in the bitter fondness Lupin reveals in his muttered commentary, the fact that he still remembers and thinks about what Sirius is like and what he might do.

“I can’t really say whether I think him capable or not, but—“

Ed cuts him off again, bluntly. “You know he wouldn’t tell me you were a werewolf —“ Lupin flinches “— until I figured it out on my own and told him? He’s still keeping secrets for you, twelve years later, even when he thinks that you don’t give two shits about him anymore.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” Lupin’s voice is subdued. “He’s always been incredibly protective of his friends.”

“Yeah.” Ed collapses into a chair, kicking his feet up onto the desk in front of him, manners be damned. “He’s… he’s a good person. Or I guess he _tries_ to be a good person, and I think that’s what makes a person good to begin with. The trying to be.”

“He’s always tried,” Lupin says softly, “but didn’t manage to think through many of his decisions. I suppose it isn’t farfetched that he’d get caught up in something like this, but… to think Peter… the fourth Marauder I mean. To think Peter could have done this to James. To _Sirius_.” He takes a deep breath, his nostrils flaring. There’s a fury in every line of his body, a tightness to him that he’s never displayed before. “It’s unforgiveable.”

“Sirius said similar things about the Rat Bastard’s loyalties and is now completely ready to murder him over it.”

Lupin gapes. “He’s going to do what?”

“He wants to kill the Rat Bastard and I’ve told him a thousand times that’s one of his top ten dumbest ideas, but the stubborn idiot wouldn’t listen to me and we had a god-damn plan but that didn’t stop him from running off to do who-knows-what without even _telling_ me about it in the first place—“

“Are you joking?”

“I’m really not. Sirius is going to do something fucking stupid if he hasn’t already and I’m pretty sure he’s going to get executed or something when he gets caught.”

“When? Not if?”

“When, because the bastard sucks at planning. You already know this, don’t act surprised.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve considered myself to be knowledgeable about Sirius Black,” Lupin says wryly. There’s an anxious twitch to his fingers, which he drums absentmindedly against the desk.

“Well, he hasn’t changed all that much,” Ed shoots back, “which is why I’m asking for your help.”

“I don’t think there’s much I can do for you if you don’t know where he is,” Lupin points out.

“I need the map,” Ed says impatiently. “I doubt Sirius left the school grounds and we can probably track—“

“How do you know about the map?” Lupin interrupts, unable to curb his curiosity.

Ed is reminded of the way Sirius had demanded to know the same thing when he’d discovered the map is still in circulation. He snorts. “Who do you think had it before Potter?”

It’s not hard to guess, because if Ed knows about it, he’d have learned that information from someone who trusts him enough to talk about it and Ed has more fingers on one hand than he does friends. (If he discounts the automail as real fingers, he can technically say he has more fingers _in total_ than he does friends.)

“The Weasley twins, of course,” Lupin murmurs, more to himself than anything. He shakes his head slightly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You were saying?”

Ed rubs his right shoulder absentmindedly. “We need to find Sirius.”

Lupin suppresses a sigh, weariness evident in his features, before walking behind his desk and producing the innocently blank parchment from one of his drawers.

“I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good,” he says quietly.

The words are a declaration that clash horribly with the way Lupin appears resigned, weighed down by the information Ed all but forced upon him. Ed would feel terrible about passing such a burden on, but he’s watched Sirius lie to himself about wanting Lupin back in his life, about telling his last living friend the truth, about reuniting with someone he clearly holds dear, especially after a decade of solitude.

And if Lupin’s response is anything to go off of, the werewolf isn’t in much better shape; he’s clearly lacking in reliable social relationships, most likely due to his condition, and his reaction about Sirius in general makes Ed think he’s done the right thing to involve him, even if it is a bit late in the game to do so.

“Will you come with me?” Ed asks as the ink spreads across the parchment, detailing the inside of the castle.

Lupin traces the neat lines of ink with a fingertip, focusing on the disappearing footprints all over the map with an intensity Ed knows is completely unnecessary. “I’m not certain he’d like to see me.”

It takes Ed a moment to really think about what Lupin has said before whipping around to face him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Edward, it’s–“

“Ed,” he interrupts. “Just call me Ed.”

“Alright then. Ed,” Lupin corrects himself. “It’s, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. And I can’t say our last meeting was on… good terms.”

“You still care about him, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Lupin answers immediately. He hesitates, as if debating something, before he sighs and continues. “I’ve tormented myself over my inability to hate Sirius for his betrayal, thought constantly that I was doing James and Lily a disservice by remembering him fondly, even when I tried very hard not to.” He scans the map for Sirius’ footprints. “I thought about him every day.”

“Then come with me to find the dumb bastard and tell him that. He misses you, I know he does for a fact, and I know you miss him. You guys are socially stunted to the point that I’m pretty concerned you don’t have any other friends.” It’s the kind of bluntness Ed normally reserves for people he likes and it brings a small smile to Lupin’s worry-ridden face.

“I’m not sure how to feel about being referred to as ‘socially stunted’ by you.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Fuck off, I have more friends than you do.”

(He startles himself with how easily the admission comes to him.)

Lupin’s smile fades. “You said he didn’t want me to know the truth.”

“That’s because he’s got self-esteem issues,” Ed says.

He laughs weakly. “Sirius Black. Having low self-esteem? That sounds quite impossible.”

“Prison will do that to you.”

They stand silently over the map, with Lupin eyeing the lower floors of the castle as Ed surveys the rest.

“Is he… is he okay? What, er, what is he like? Now, I mean.”

“He’s not okay,” Ed says, matter-of-fact. “He’s definitely affected by his time in Azkaban, but he’s still the same idiot who decided Moony was an appropriate nickname for a werewolf.”

That startles a laugh out of Lupin. The corners of Ed’s mouth turn up in response.

“He’s childish and impatient and so fucking hot-headed it’s impossible to reason with him sometimes,” Ed continues. “But he’s kind, in an awkward, socially incompetent way, and he cares about his friends, like you said before. He talks about you a lot.”

“He does?”

“Oh yeah, it was hard keeping a straight face in your class when I was imagining you tripping down three flights of stairs because you wouldn’t stop reading those corny romance books.”

Lupin turns slightly pink. “He said that, did he?”

Ed smirks. “He’s said a lot. To think that a Hogwarts professor was involved in so much mischief during his time as a student… always knew you were a right bastard underneath this frumpy coat.”

“This coat is in perfectly good condition,” Lupin says, completely ignoring the point.

Before Ed can repeat the important message that Remus Lupin is a right bastard, Lupin speaks. “There he is.” He reaches out and taps a pair of footprints pacing the length of the Forbidden Forest, never venturing too far in.

“God fucking damn it, he’s looking for the bike,” Ed grits out.

“The bike?” Lupin’s confused expression morphs into one of horror. “You don’t mean—“

“I’ll explain on the way there. C’mon, we got to go find our idiot.”

* * * * *

With the map in hand, Lupin and Ed avoid any witnesses as they slip out of the castle and hurry towards the forest. Ed explains the original plan as they walk and then clarifies that, yes, “the bike” refers to Sirius’ flying motorbike.

“I should have destroyed that thing when I had the chance,” Lupin says ruefully. “Sirius always did think riding it made him look ‘cool’.”

Ed snorts. “Sirius is the very opposite of cool.”

“I’m surprised you’ve managed to form such an accurate opinion of him in so short of a time,” Lupin says with a smile.

“I’m full of surprises.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to understand that,” Lupin says. They’re almost at Hagrid’s hut. “How are we going to go about this?”

“Well, I’m pretty much going to strangle him to death the second I get my hands on him, so maybe you should go first.”

Lupin sighs. “Why am I having flashbacks of my teenage years?”

“Suck it up, old man, he’s your friend, your problem.”

“He’s your friend too, by the sound of it.”

“Sure,” Ed cuts him off, “But he was your friends first, so you’re going first.”

Lupin has the sense to stay quiet, picking his way across the forest floor while referencing the map every so often.

“We’re almost there,” he says softly. He turns to face Ed. “I suppose I’ll be going first.”

Ed gives him a shit-eating grin and a thumbs-up before waving him off.

They’re deep enough in the forest that the trees block out most natural light and the visibility is limited to roughly three feet in front of a person’s nose. Ed lingers behind a tree and waits for any indication from Lupin that he should approach.

There’s no sound in the forest except for the occasional crunch of Lupin’s feet against the twigs and fallen leaves. Ed dislikes the unnatural stillness of his surroundings; weren’t forests supposed to be filled with animals and whatnot? Where are the birds? Or even the sound of the wind?

He doesn’t have much longer to ruminate on the eerie silence.

“Moo-, Moony?!”

“Hullo, Sirius,” Lupin says. “Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“What, wait, how? I’m, er, I guess?” Awkward silence. “Why aren’t you running away or something?”

“I was informed by a concerned party that I’d find you here.”

That’s Ed’s cue. He wanders out from his hiding spot and approaches the voices.

Sirius and Lupin are standing five feet apart (because they’re _not_ gay), staring each other down, because they clearly don’t know what else to do. As soon as Ed appears behind Lupin, Sirius splutters, pointing between the two of them as he scrambles to piece together what exactly has changed since he left the Room of Requirements. “You, you, fuck, you fucking told him! Why the fuck would you do that!”

Ed stalks over and grabs the front of Sirius’ robes and the man immediately wraps his hands around Ed’s wrists.

“Why would I do that? What about you?” Ed snarls, shaking Sirius furiously. “What the hell were you thinking?”

The outrage at Ed’s “betrayal” is overcome by a look of pure guilt as Sirius seems to remember his own actions. “I, uh, I w-, wasn’t?”

“Damn straight you weren’t,” Ed says. “If you ever do anything like this again, I’ll shave you bald, you hear me?”

Sirius yelps, putting one hand protectively against the top of his head. “You wouldn’t dare, brat!”

“Fucking try me, you bastard!” Ed shakes him once more for good measure before letting Sirius go.

Sirius collapses in a heap on the floor and stays there, lifting his arm over his eyes. The three of them don’t move, waiting on Sirius to get up off the ground.

“Sorry,” he says, still covering his eyes, still on the ground. It’s quiet but sincere. “I got impatient.”

“I figured,” Ed says, irritated, but no longer as angry as he’d once been. “Did you manage to do anything useful?”

“…no.”

“I might just murder you and bury your dumb ass out here and no one will find out what happened to—“

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time,” Lupin says, reminding both Sirius and Ed of his presence. “You said Peter is still unaccounted for.”

“How much did you tell him, you little brat,” Sirius mutters, heaving himself off the floor, but refusing to make eye contact with his childhood friend.

Neither man can look at each other and Ed doesn’t have the patience to watch them dance around each other.

“What, you guys aren’t going to kiss and make up?”

Sirius and Lupin jerk their heads in Ed’s general direction.

“NO!” Sirius shouts at the same time that Lupin bursts into laughter.

Ed holds up both hands in a defensive gesture. “Alright, alright, calm the fuck down.”

“You calm down,” Sirius snaps. “Can you believe this kid?”

“He’s been a pain in my ass all year long,” Lupin replies, deadpan.

Ed snorts. “Did I hear that correctly? Remus Lupin badmouthing his students? I’m reporting you to McGonagall for hurting my feelings.”

Lupin smiles at the thought. “I assure you, no one will believe it, especially coming from you.”

He’s the first to crack, laughing so hard he almost cries over the mental image of Ed telling on him on the basis of _hurt feelings_ , and it’s infectious, because soon Sirius joins in, the sound of his laughter free and unburdened. Ed breathes easier as he can feel the tension from before ebbing away.

“You two can catch up later,” Ed says eventually, returning his attention to their mutual problem before Sirius and Lupin can slip back into strained silence. “We need to readjust the original plan thanks to _someone_ here. I won’t name names.”

Sirius scowls. “I said I was sorry!”

“I said I won’t name names,” Ed says in his best impersonation of Mustang’s “get-fucked” voice.

Lupin snorts.

“Like I said. Change of plans.” Ed thinks about what Lupin’s involvement could mean. “Have you seen the Rat Bastard on the map?”

The man shakes his head. “I wasn’t looking for him.” He offers the parchment to Ed, who takes it and spread it out on top of a nearby boulder. “Pettigrew,” Lupin adds, remembering Ed didn’t know the full name.

“He should be somewhere in the Gryffindor dormitory,” Ed says, scanning the page. “There!”

“Where?” Sirius leans in and then immediately glowers at the name “Peter Pettigrew” wandering about in one of the bedrooms.

“How do you suppose we catch him? He’ll definitely run if he sees either me or Sirius.”

Ed might cry at Lupin’s display of common sense. “Thank every higher power in existence for people who understand rational thinking.”

“HEY!”

Ed ignores the outburst from Sirius. “I could sneak into the Gryffindor dorms. It’s risky, especially given my fucked-up reputation, but it’s easier to get away with than if either of you attempt it.”

“How will you get in?” Lupin asks.

“Genius over there got a list of passwords into the dorm.”

Lupin gives Ed a pitying look. “How did you manage to endure his presence for this long?”

“I liked you two better when you didn’t know you both knew me,” Sirius grumbles. “And it wasn’t _that_ dumb, Moony, I swear I wasn’t going to do anything—“

“Stupid? Reckless? Thoughtless?” Lupin supplies for him.

“He definitely was,” Ed confirms.

“I hate you both,” Sirius announces.

“Sure you do,” Ed snorts. “Anyways. I can get the rat, but now that we have Lupin, maybe we can finally exonerate you and you can meet your godson.”

Sirius instantly becomes uncomfortable. “I don’t… that’s probably not a great idea.”

“Why not?” Lupin is genuinely surprised. “Don’t you want to be able to live your life? To meet Harry?”

Sirius doesn’t respond.

“Why is it a bad idea? Isn’t that what you wanted?” Ed prods the man, who half-heartedly bats his fingers away.

“I didn’t really prepare myself for that possibility,” Sirius says in a small voice. “I didn’t ever think I’d get to be free and it seemed useless getting my hopes up.”

_Okay, that is way out of my comfort zone._

Ed elbows Lupin and makes a face that screams _talk-to-him-NOW_.

Lupin nods and walks over to sit by Sirius’ side. The other man instantly leans in so that their shoulders are pressed together. “I can understand that mentality.” His voice is quiet, gentle the way it had been whenever he had tried to talk about boggarts with Ed. “Did you know that I hadn’t ever hoped to have acquaintances, let alone friends, after becoming a werewolf? That was a few years before I was eleven, so I wasn’t —”

It’s far too intimate for Ed to feel comfortable, listening on as old friends spill secrets and share feelings he shouldn’t be privy to. He retreats into the forest, putting enough distance between them that he can’t quite make out what they’re saying, even if he can imagine the way the conversation will go.

He’s known Sirius would still have issues — he’ll probably have issues for the rest of his life — and he thinks he can understand it perhaps better than anyone else, but it isn’t his place to say anything about it. Maybe with time, Ed might be able to have that conversation, but right now, stuck in a reality that isn’t his own, wielding limbs that aren’t quite his, he knows that he can’t.

He can’t stand the thought of being vulnerable ever again.

“Kid?”

Ed blinks and comes face-to-face with Sirius, who’s peering back at him. “Lupin changed your mind that fast?”

“It’s been nearly half an hour,” Sirius points out, “but yeah, he did.” His brow furrows with concern. “You alright?”

“Yeah. I’m good. Fine.”

Lupin hovers a few feet away, the exasperation written all over his face. “The classic Elric response.”

Ed doesn’t get a chance to retort, because Sirius suddenly smiles gleefully and rounds on him. “Your name is Elric?”

“No,” Ed says, glaring at Lupin. “It’s not.”

“Moony knows your name! Doesn’t this mean I get to know your name too?” Sirius looks at him with hopeful eyes, the slightest pout gracing his lips.

“No,” Ed replies, an evil smirk twisting his features. He snorts at the unique blend of dismay and irritation radiating off of Sirius in near-visible waves. Ed allows Sirius to suffer for another minute before speaking again. “I’m Ed,” he says, grin spreading across his face, “Edward Elric.” 

“I think ‘brat’ suits you better,” Sirius replies, eyes twinkling with mischievous humor.

“Fuck off,” Ed growls.

“Children,” Lupin says, “please behave.”

* * * * *

The new and improved plan is simple: Lupin will invite Harry to the Shrieking Shack (under the guise of telling him more about his parents, which is not technically a lie), where Sirius will be waiting. Ed will fetch Pettigrew and bring him to the Shack beforehand, preferably without crossing paths with Harry. Ideally, Lupin and Sirius will explain the truth behind the deaths of Harry’s parents with Pettigrew as both proof and witness and then they will all collectively report to Dumbledore as the first step in establishing Sirius’ innocence.

Simple enough.

“Again, why don’t we all just take the Rat Bastard and go to Dumbledore from the beginning, then let Harry know after?” Ed is sprawled on the forest floor, tearing dried leaves apart as they talk out their next moves.

“Because,” Lupin answers, “Dumbledore may question my motives before I can properly explain what’s going on and I’m not keen on dealing with the consequences of bringing a ‘threat’ onto school grounds.”

“You really don’t think one of the ‘greatest wizards of our time’ will listen to reason?”

Lupin purses his lips. “I’m afraid the Headmaster is difficult to understand at times and rather particular about how he does things. In regard to Sirius, he’s already made up his mind on the matter.”

“Dumbledore wanted to be James and Lily’s Secret Keeper, but James asked me to do it,” Sirius says gloomily. “I don’t think he’d be happy to see me at all, whether we had Wormtail to prove it or not.”

Ed understands the complexity of the situation and the careful consideration that they’ll have to use moving forward. He is, after all, a State alchemist, and he’s more than experienced when it comes to dealing with superiors who have to have things their way. “Alright then. We’ll go with the Harry-first option.”

“Besides,” Lupin says cheerfully, “it might be better for Sirius to explain himself without outside influences pressuring either him or Harry.”

“Good point,” Ed agrees. “When should we do this though? The year is almost over.”

End-of-year exams are taking place in little more than a week. The window of opportunity to communicate with Harry and Dumbledore is rapidly closing.

“Tomorrow?” Sirius suggests.

“I could do that,” Ed nods. “I’ll just sneak into the Gryffindor common room late tonight.”

“Are you two serious?” Lupin stares at them like they’ve swapped heads.

“No, he’s Sirius.”

“No, I’m Sirius.”

Ed and Sirius exchange looks and grin at the timing.

“You know what I meant. Are you joking?”

“No?”

“Harry has exams in nine days, we should be considerate of his study plans,” Lupin explains.

“That’s not important,” Sirius says.

At the same time, Ed declares, “Exams mean nothing.”

Lupin lets out a long-suffering sigh. “What did I expect from people who never study.”

Sirius laughs. “You don’t study either?”

Ed and Sirius high-five over their shared lack of concern in academic matters, while Lupin slips his wand out of his coat pocket.

He charms their eyebrows off in the next ten seconds.

“What the fuck,” Ed says, turning to face Lupin. He covers his forehead with his hand. “Give them back!”

Lupin smiles politely. “Oh, they’ll grow back soon.”

“Ugh,” Sirius groans, “I didn’t miss this at all.”

“You mean he’s done this before?”

“Kid, Moony is the king of magical minor inconveniences. He uses his evil powers to punish people he thinks deserves it.”

“Be grateful this isn’t permanent,” Lupin replies, still all smiles. “I’ll ask Harry to meet with me after exams are over. Do not bother him before then.”

“The full moon’s the night of exams,” Ed points out. “Won’t that be a problem?”

“As long as we accomplish everything in a timely manner, it won’t be a problem at all.”

“And,” Sirius adds, “you won’t be alone.”

Lupin smiles at the implication and Sirius grins back, but that just drags a laugh out of the werewolf. “You look odd without your eyebrows,” he says. 

“Whose fault is that,” Ed grumbles. He squints. “How long is it going to take to grow back?”

“At least twenty-four hours,” Lupin says, laughing again.

“Fuck you,” Sirius and Ed say at the same time.

Lupin keeps laughing.

* * * * *

“You’ve been rather tense lately. Are you worried about exams?”

That startles an abrupt laugh out of Ed, whose last concern at the moment is what kind of nonsense grade he’ll be receiving on his _magic_ examinations. “Fuck no,” he says. “Why, should I be worried?”

Blaise raises an eyebrow in a look that screams of cool indifference. “I think it won’t matter in your case.”

“You know me _so_ well,” Ed says, snorting. “I’m obviously like this because of _exams_.”

“I’ll have you know that Draco is intolerable leading up to exams,” Blaise sniffs. “He’s irritable to start with, but he’s completely insufferable after reviewing a year’s worth of material in twelve different subjects _non-stop_.”

“Yeah, well, Draco needed to pull the wand out of his ass long before exams started.”

Blaise exhales slightly through his nose, which Ed has learned is an indication of amusement and probably the closest to a laugh he’s ever gotten from the Slytherin.

“I suppose Draco is rather uptight…”

Ed scoffs and turns his attention back to the blank parchment in front of him, trying to remember what exactly Snape said the essay should be about. (The asshole required the essays to be at least three feet of parchment paper! Also, why the fuck are wizards measuring the length of their essays! Ed digresses.) “ _Draco is a bastard._ ”

“ _Bastard,_ ” Blaise repeats, testing the word out, forcing his mouth to create the unfamiliar sounds. “I think I’ve heard this one a fair amount.”

Ever since that incident near Christmas, Ed has slowly become loose-lipped around Blaise when it comes to Amestrian and often adds his snide remarks without thinking much about it. Blaise, for the most part, takes to the foreign language like a vampire to blood, savoring in the smooth, sharp sounds of the foreign tongue as Ed rants.

He asks clarification questions occasionally, usually pointing out certain objects or requesting specific phrases he’d like to know. The first complete sentence Blaise ever pieces together on his own is, “ _You are annoying_ ,” in the rudest phrasing possible; Ed almost gets mad about how aggressive it sounds, but one, he knows how hard connotation is to learn, two, it’s hilarious hearing prim and proper Blaise Zabini swear like a soldier when their CO isn’t around and three, there’s a really small part of him that likes someone bothering to learn what he’s saying under his breath at all.

They aren’t really at a point where they can have conversations — Ed is pretty sure Blaise won’t ever be capable of it, given the lack of materials there are to formally learn the language — but Blaise will occasionally throw in an insult or point at something and name it in accented Amestrian and it’s bittersweet, really, how much it reminds Ed that home is waiting for him, even if he might possibly be at home here too.

“ ** _B_** _astard,_ ” Ed says again, emphasizing the initial consonant. “ ** _You’re_** _a bastard._ ”

“ _Rude_ ,” Blaise sniffs. “Although I’m only eighty percent certain what you just called me.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ed replies, returning his attention to his blank essay paper.

Blaise gives him a withering look before opening his textbook once more. “ _Fucking idiot._ ”

Ed smiles in spite of himself and doesn’t bother to hide it, since the bastard won’t see it anyways.

* * * * *

“Ed, could I, er, could I ask you something?”

Ed is sitting on the floor of an empty classroom, surrounded by every book he owns as he attempts to multitask. (He really shouldn’t have procrastinated all of this essay-writing.)

“You can ask me anything, Neville,” Ed replies, not looking up as he scribbles the last few inches of his potions essay. 

“It’s… it’s about the summer.”

Ed can’t really tell why Neville sounds so hesitant. “What about the summer?” He finally looks up.

Neville is picking at a loose thread on his robe and he’s focused on the task as if it were his mission in life to unravel the entire thing by hand. 

“What about the summer?” Ed repeats uneasily.

“Do you. Are you… er, I was wondering” — Neville takes a deep breath — “if you had a place to stay.”

Ed furrows his brow. “Why are you asking about—”

“Because you, you said, about your parents, you know, before Christmas?”

_Shit._ Ed almost forgot he’d revealed that tidbit of information to the other boy.

“I do. Have a place to stay, I mean.” He’s hesitant to explain much more than that; he’d love to tell Neville exactly where he’ll be so he can assuage any fears of his potential homelessness, but there isn’t an easy explanation of how Ed received an invitation to live with Sirius Black, wanted criminal.

Neville smiles, his face radiating genuine warmth. “That’s great! Really, I’m, well, I’m really glad to hear that.” He scowls suddenly. “Wait, you aren’t lying to me right?”

“No, I wouldn’t lie,” Ed says, snorting. “What would be the point of that?”

“It’s absolutely the kind of thing you would do,” Neville accuses. “Lie so people don’t worry about you.”

“I’m not lying, Nev, I have a place to stay. A friend — an old friend, not from Hogwarts — is letting me live with him.”

Neville is smiling again.

When Ed blinks, he sees Al smiling at him, his body no longer an armor, for a moment before the image disappears.

“Will you be going to the World Cup?”

“Hm?”

“The World Cup,” Neville repeats. “It’s the biggest event of the summer.”

“Quidditch?”

Neville gapes. “Yeah, quidditch. Wow, where exactly were you raised?” His eyes grow wide and his lips tremble. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“Middle of fucking nowhere,” Ed says nonchalantly. “Born and raised in the countryside, surrounded by Muggles.”

“Oh,” Neville says softly. And then he’s grinning, his smile so wide Ed’s certain it must hurt his cheeks. “Is it nice there?”

“It has its charms,” Ed concedes. He tries to smile, but ends up grimacing and Neville notices immediately.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” the Gryffindor says.

“It’s fine,” Ed says. “I don’t mind.”

_Baby steps_ , he thinks to himself.

Neville chews on his lower lip. “You’re certain?”

Ed nods and squeezes his thigh, right above his automail. “I’m sure.”

Neville drops to the floor and tucks his knees under his chin. “Then I’d like to hear about it. Where you grew up, what it was like there. I’ve heard small towns have a lot of hot gossip.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

Ed goes off, doing his best to describe Resembool without the bad memories that linger there, answering Neville’s questions and talking about the way the seasons change and the smell of the air and the color of the grass. The other boy sits and listens intently as Ed starts to open up about his life pre-Hogwarts.

By the end of it, Ed has even mentioned Al.

And he doesn’t regret it at all.

* * * * *

Everything is going according to plan for once.

Exams are so easy for Ed that it’s laughable; he finishes everything in record time. His final opportunity to upset the Ravenclaws for that school year comes to an end as he turns in his work a half hour early and slips out of the Great Hall. (They glare and groan and mutter under their breaths as he waves goodbye cheerily like the asshole he is.)

He’s absolutely certain he’s the only student to be wandering the halls, so he bolts up to the portrait guarding the Gryffindor common room with Crookshank’s list in hand.

“Cabbages,” he says.

The lady in the portrait eyes him suspiciously, but can’t refuse him entry when he knows the password.

He checks the map before walking inside, watching Pettigrew’s footsteps for any sudden movement. And it’s all too easy to sneak into the room and snatch an unsuspecting rat lying on top of a discarded pair of pants beneath one of the beds.

The rat squeaks, writhing in Ed’s grip, as Ed hurries out of the castle, racing to the Shrieking Shack. He’s not at all worried by the prospect of it escaping, seeing as he’s clenched his automail tightly around it.

_It’s finally fucking happening!_

Sirius is waiting inside the shack, biting his fingernails and occasionally running a hand through his hair. His head snaps up to face the door when Ed bursts through.

“Do you have him?”

Ed wheezes, one hand on his knee, the other holding out the wriggling, panicked rodent.

“Fuck, this is actually happening,” Sirius whispers.

“No murder,” Ed reminds him, still catching his breath. “When does Lupin get here?”

“Soon, I hope.”

Ed groans. “I don’t want to be seen with you guys. Too many questions.” He makes as if to hand Pettigrew over to Sirius, who immediately stops him.

“I don’t trust myself with him,” Sirius mutters darkly.

“Fine,” Ed says. He pulls his wand out of his pocket. “ _Stupefy_.”

The rat goes limp.

“Take him,” Ed insists, holding him out to Sirius. “You might not trust yourself, but I trust you. So, hurry up and take him and let me hide before Potter shows up.”

Sirius slowly extends a hand and gingerly accepts the stunned rodent. He wrinkles his nose. “I really don’t like this.”

“Do what you must to fucking deal with it. Lupin’ll get here soon. You thought about what you want to say to Potter?”

“Of course,” Sirius says, instantly nervous once more. “I have it all planned out.”

“Right,” Ed says, dubiously. “I’m sure you’ll be fine, just no murder and no talking like you belong in a Shakespearian tragedy, okay?”

There’s a blank look. “Who’s Shakespeare?”

“He’s—, you know what, doesn’t matter — no dramatics, okay?”

“Alright, alright, Merlin, who killed your owl and ate it?”

Ed flips him off, before retreating behind a closet door. “I’ll be watching, so don’t fuck up unless you want me to punch you. And I will, I definitely deserve to do it after all I’ve put up with.”

“Shut up, brat, just go hide.”

Everything’s going to plan for once.

Until it doesn’t.

* * * * *

The first complication becomes pretty fucking obvious when Lupin and Harry are not the only people to walk in through the door. Ron, with his unmistakable red hair and height, and Hermione, with her dark complexion and coiled hair, would be impossible to miss standing next to Harry Potter.

“ _Shit_ ,” Ed breathes. “ _Holy fucking shit._ ”

“What did you want to show me, professor?” Harry glances around the run-down building.

Lupin clears his throat. “I know you’ve asked me a lot about your parents and I know you’ve heard things about–, about Sirius Black.”

Ed can just barely make out what’s happening from his hiding spot behind the busted closet door. 

Harry’s face scrunches as he thinks. “He got my parents murdered,” he says bluntly. 

Lupin flinches as something creaks loudly. 

_That has to be Sirius,_ Ed thinks. 

“Yes, well, I asked you to meet with me, because I thought you deserved to know the truth,” Lupin says weakly. 

“What does that mean exactly?” Hermione says, slowly reaching for her wand. 

Ron edges himself forward so he’s slightly in front of Harry. 

Lupin raises both hands to show he means no harm. “This is going to be hard to hear, but you must understand, Harry, I want you to give him a chance.”

“Who?”

Sirius emerges from behind a broken cabinet, dressed in his rags, fingers wrapped around what looks like a dead rat. 

“Me.”

Second complication.

Ed slaps a hand to his forehead. _Literally one of the rules was no fucking theatrics!_

Harry and Hermione gasp, while Ron shouts. “You! You’re, you, you’re SIRIUS BLACK! WAIT, THAT’S MY RAT!” 

All three of them yank out their wands and it’s impossible to miss the way their hands tremble or how they huddle together as if to shield one another. Ed is suddenly overwhelmed with bitterness that no matter where you go, alternate reality or not, children can and will be forced to grow up before they’re ready. 

“It’s not what you think!” Lupin yells, throwing himself between the two parties, his arms extended out to both sides. “He’s not a murderer!”

“He bloody well murdered my rat!”

“The bastard isn’t dead,” Sirius snarls. “He’s stunned.” He shakes the limp body with annoyance. “Someone wake him up.”

The Golden Trio stare at the escaped convict with fearful eyes, glancing every so often at the rat in his hand.

“Why do you hate Scabbers?” Hermione asks in a wavering voice. 

“Oh, right,” Sirius says, as if one of the most important parts of the story had simply escaped him. “This isn’t a rat.”

“What?” Harry says scathingly. 

“‘S not a rat,” Sirius croaks. He coughs, in an attempt to clear his throat, but still sounds nervous as he continues. “It’s Peter. Peter Pettigrew?”

“That’s impossible,” Hermione says. Her wand arm drops slightly. “You killed Pettigrew.”

“Didn’t kill him.” Sirius wisely chooses to change his tone and sounds far less aggressive than he had initially. “He’s an Animagus.”

When Sirius receives nothing but suspicious glares, he groans. “This isn’t nearly as simple as I thought it would be. Moony, you should tell them—“

“Moony?” Ron interrupts, scandalized. “Like the map? Is that you?”

“You’ve been in league with him? All this time?” Harry shouts and once again, three wands are pointed at the existing Marauders.

“How could you?” Hermione says, her voice cutting and furious. “Harry trusted you! I, _I_ trusted you.”

“Merlin’s pants, Sirius, I thought E–, _you_ said you knew what you were going to say,” Lupin groans.

“I thought I did!”

“Don’t ignore us,” Ron snaps.

“We’re not,” Sirius says. “We’re also not ‘in league with one another’ if that sort of thing matters to you.”

“ _This is a hot mess,_ ” Ed mutters. He almost feels the urge to walk into the room and reveal himself just so he can smack some sense into everyone present.

He doesn’t, of course, because he’d rather not deal with the Golden Trio and their prying when he doesn’t have to, but he is barely able to tolerate the amount of miscommunication happening.

It’s at this moment Hermione reveals she knows Lupin is a werewolf and Sirius’ face twists into a hellish expression as Lupin pales, standing utterly still.

As a Muggle-raised wizard, Harry doesn’t appear bothered by the revelation, but Ron’s mouth drops in horror and his eyes are wide with fear.

“Ah,” Lupin laughs weakly, “was it the essay that tipped you off?”

For the first time since the shit-show started, Sirius moves from his corner of the room, grabs Lupin by the collar of his robes, and pulls him behind him. “Back off, that has nothing to do with this!”

It visibly startles the three kids that escaped convict, presumed Death Eater, Sirius Black stands protectively in front of Remus Lupin, a werewolf.

They’re startled once more when Pettigrew wakes up in Sirius’ clutches and immediately freaks out, wriggling and squeaking like his life is on the line.

“Scabbers!”

“Shit!” Sirius curses.

Third complication: the rat bites down on Sirius’ fingers, hard, shocking him into dropping it.

“Catch him!” Lupin shouts as he, Sirius, and Ron attempt to grab the rodent as it scuttles away.

They’re all unsuccessful and it looks as if it’ll be able to slip under the crack of a busted door and disappear forever.

At least it would have, had Edward Elric not been standing behind said door.

He kicks the already broken door down and emerges, holding the frightened rat in his right hand and pins both Sirius and Lupin with a glare.

“You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

* * * * *

“— I fucking told you to be prepared, I fucking said maybe doing it this way wasn’t a great idea, but _no_ , no one wants to listen to Ed and his genius ideas, instead we’re going to fuck around and get nothing done! You dumb —”

Ed has been berating Sirius and Lupin for at least five minutes now, waving his arms as he yells at them, all while still holding the Rat Bastard.

At least the adults have the common sense to look chastised.

“— and did I or did I NOT say that I didn’t want to be involved with this trainwreck, but that wasn’t an option anymore either, was it!”

“Edward?” someone behind him says in a small voice.

“What?” he snarls, turning to face the three Gryffindors, who recoil upon seeing the anger on his face.

“Wh-why, er, what are you doing here?”

This is exactly the kind of crap Ed didn’t want to be bothered with on the last day of the school year. He’s managed to avoid notice (generally speaking) the entire year, just for everything to blow up in his face on the last possible day.

_Perfect. Just perfect._

“These two idiots—“ he jerks a thumb behind him “— are trying to let Potter know the truth about his parents and failing miserably.” He holds up the rat and squeezes it maliciously. “This little bastard right here has been in hiding for twelve years after murdering twelve Muggles and blaming one of his friends. Isn’t that right, you piece of shit?”

Harry, Hermione, and Ron stare at him like he is unhinged. He probably is, a little bit. This entire misunderstanding has been going on for far too long in Fullmetal-Alchemist-time. If Ed were back in Amestris, he would’ve had the issue resolved in an hour or so after finding Sirius.

He digs his wand out and prods the Rat Bastard with the tip. Muttering the Latin enchantment between gritted teeth, Ed prepares himself to see yet another animal-to-human transmutation that he absolutely doesn’t want to see.

It’s just as gruesome as he remembers.

He drops the Rat Bastard immediately when he grows too large for his skin and both of his hands curl into fists as the rat explodes into a rather small, twitchy man, missing a finger on one hand.

“Bloody hell,” Ron breathes, gaping at his former pet. “Have I been sleeping with a man in my bed for the last three years?”

“Is that really your first concern?” Hermione hisses, poking Ron in the side.

Pettigrew looks around the room with large, beady eyes before settling on Harry, who’s standing stiffly in front of the exit.

He lunges, as if to escape, but Ed is on top of him the second he moves, twisting the man’s arms behind him and pressing his face into the dusty floorboards. “I don’t fucking think so, asshole. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.” Ed turns to Sirius and Lupin. “Well?”

It would appear that Sirius, as hot-headed and impulsive as he is, has managed to reign himself in enough to provide Harry with a pre-planned confession of sorts explaining the events leading up to his parents’ deaths and his intended involvement in Harry’s life.

Or that would be the plan, but Sirius doesn’t really ever follow those, does he?

“I’m, I. Well, technically, er, I, it’s complicated,” Sirius settles on, explaining absolutely nothing.

There’s an uncomfortably long silence in which no one says anything, because they’re all waiting for Sirius to expand on what he’s already said. The only thing that could (and does) make things worse is the sound of Peter’s desperate wails and pleading.

“He’s your godfather,” Lupin says when he finally realizes Sirius is too nervous and awkward to say it himself.

“My what?”

“He was your parents’ Secret-Keeper and he was supposed to take care of you should anything happen to Lily and James,” Lupin continues.

Sirius stares at his feet with a completely unnecessary determination.

Ed scowls. _This idiot._

There’s more blustering around the issue and more semi-accusative questions from Harry and his friends, particularly from a protective Ron, who’s pulled himself back from the hysteria of “how have I been sleeping at night with a grown man loose in my bedroom?”, and a ruthless Hermione, who’s trying to make sense of every little detail. Harry, for the most part, seems to be stuck on the fact that he has a godfather who actually wants to get to know him and isn’t actually a murderer.

(What that says about Harry’s life outside of school makes Ed feel bitter all over again.)

Occasionally, Sirius and Lupin will demand Pettigrew for answers, which he initially refuses to give, until Ed threatens to break an arm or two (to the alarm of everyone else in the room). A then appropriately terrified Pettigrew squeals, revealing his role in leading Riddle to the Potters twelve years prior and killing the twelve Muggles Sirius was accused of murdering.

Pettigrew continues to plead and beg for forgiveness throughout the whole thing.

“Shut up,” Ed says, whacking the man on the back of his head.

That draws everyone’s attention back to him, unfortunately.

“How exactly are you involved with this?” Hermione asks, scrutinizing Ed with fearsome eyes. Both Sirius and Lupin had been careful to exclude Ed from their explanations, even though he’d already been seen by the three people he needed to avoid in the first place.

Ed shrugs. “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

“Doesn’t matter, he says,” Ron grumbles, shaking his head. “Can’t believe Fred and George trust you.”

“It. Doesn’t. Matter.” Ed glares at Ron, who immediately stops talking. “If you’re all done talking, you should probably deal with him.” He looks pointedly at Pettigrew, who hasn’t said anything useful since the entire confession.

“We should probably go to Dumbledore,” Harry says. He’s watching Pettigrew fight against Ed’s unrelenting grip with something that might be pity, or maybe it’s bitterness, in his eyes.

“Great idea,” Ed says. “Maybe the only great idea to have come from this group in the last hour.”

“Hey, this worked out a lot better than my original plan would have,” Sirius points out.

“That’s because you’re a fucking idiot,” Ed retorts. “And I’m also going to chalk up your inability to have a casual conversation with your own godson to the fact that you’ve been in jail for twelve fucking years, but you should know that this was uncomfortable as hell to watch and I’m never going to let you forget it,” he says.

“Brat,” Sirius says, sticking out his tongue.

“Man-child,” Ed snaps back.

“Do you two know each other?” Harry’s eyes travel back and forth between Ed and Sirius. There’s a slight scowl on his face that Ed determines stems from jealousy and he doesn’t know if he should address it. He decides not to — that’s a job for the godfather.

“No,” Ed says, obviously a lie.

“Yeah,” Sirius says.

“Let’s just get the Rat Bastard back to the castle, alright? It’s getting late.” Ed raises an eyebrow at Lupin, who quickly catches on.

“Yes, we should be heading back,” Lupin says. “Ed, are you certain you want to take him? You’ll most likely be involved in the questioning that’s sure to follow.”

Yeah, he really doesn’t want to do that.

“Don’t lose him this time,” Ed warns, forcing Pettigrew onto his feet, arms still twisted behind his back.

Lupin is the one to grab Pettigrew from Ed, shaking his head subtly at Sirius.

They all leave the Shack in varying degrees of anger, shock, and confusion and emerge from the base of the Whomping Willow.

“Well, this is my cue to leave,” Ed says, addressing the group. He salutes lazily, a mockery of what a proper salute should be. “G’luck with Dumbledore.”

“You’re just going to leave?” Harry asks, eyebrows raised so high they’re basically at his hairline.

“Uh, yeah? I’m not going to go with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You didn’t explain anything!” Hermione glowers. “You’ve never even spoken to us before today and it turns out you knew all of, that this was all happening and we thought Harry was going to be killed. You _could’ve_ said something, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think,” Ed deadpans. “That must be the source of the problem.”

“Now _I’m_ irritated,” Ron says. “Mate, we deserve to know what you—“

“Don’t care if you deserve to know or not,” Ed interrupts. “Not my problem. Ask them if you want, they can tell you.” He gestures carelessly at the adults, who are waiting (impatiently on Sirius’ part) for the kids to stop chatting. “My work here is done. See you around.”

He walks off briskly before Harry and his friends can object, heading straight for his bed and passing out, exhausted.

It’s the first time he sleeps more than a few hours interrupted the entire year.

* * * * *

Early in the morning, the moon still hanging low and full in the sky, Ed trudges out to where he’d hid the motorbike.

While he waits for Sirius to show up at the agreed upon time, Ed replays every moment of the earlier confrontation and second guesses his every move. He’d tried to stay out of it, because even though he did know what was going on and what needed to be done, it really wasn’t his business to speak for anyone or explain anything. He’s technically a passerby and he plans to remain one, no matter what Harry and his friends think of or want from him.

He knows he’s not going to be able to avoid the Golden Trio forever, which is unfortunate, but probably unavoidable, seeing as he still needs the invisibility cloak from Harry at some time in the foreseeable future.

It takes roughly an hour, but Sirius finally arrives, dirty and tired, but wholeheartedly pleased with himself.

“Lupin doing okay?” Ed asks first and Sirius nods happily.

“I think he’s probably doing better than he has been in years.”

“And how’d things turn out with Dumbledore?”

“Good enough. I’m not allowed to take Harry in yet, because there’s a load of paperwork and other useless formalities that are required for me to clear my name, but as of right now, Wormtail’s in custody and I should be free to go.”

Ed is pretty sure the entire ordeal was much more complicated than Sirius’ summarization implies, but he lets it go — he did say it wasn’t his problem.

“Then why are you still taking the motorbike?”

Sirius shrugs. “It’s mine and it’s cool?”

Ed makes a face.

“Alright, technically, I’m free to go, but it’s not common knowledge yet that I’m not a murderer and it’d be better for me not to get caught by dementors or something on my way out.” His elation dims slightly. “I’m still stuck at Grimmauld Place for now, but you’re going to come, aren’t you?” He turns hopeful eyes towards Ed.

Ed grins. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

“Brat,” Sirius says fondly. “I’ll see you soon?” He reaches out to ruffle Ed’s hair against his will and Ed just barely tolerates it.

“Bastard,” Ed says, but he’s still grinning. “Leave already, you’re going to get caught.”

“Rude! I’ll never be caught!” Sirius sticks out his tongue, but starts the engine and readies himself to depart anyway.

“You better not die before I show up tomorrow,” Ed warns.

“Don’t worry, _mum_ , I’ll be fine!”

Ed lets out an outraged string of curses, but the sound of the engine drowns him out. Sirius takes off on the motorbike, the sound of his laughter lingering as Ed watches the bike rapidly speed off the ground and into the night sky.

“Flying motorbike,” he grumbles to himself. “What a fucking joke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading as always!
> 
> thank you as well for comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. - i appreciate it :-)
> 
> not sure what you guys were expecting in terms of the confrontation, but my thought process was that it'd start out a shit show, but all work out in the end due to increased maturity and coordination on sirius and lupin's parts and with ed's assistance
> 
> also didn't include the rundown with everyone and dumbledore because i thought it would be kind of unnecessary and that ed wouldn't want to be involved because it's too much of a hassle, which is why i had him avoid it entirely
> 
> next chapter(s), for sure: conversation between lupin and dumbledore, goodbyes, friend stuff, ed moves in with sirius, and finally, stuff related to returning to amestris :-)
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	10. edward elric and one hundred and four days of summer vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a hundred and four days of summer vacation,  
> 'til school comes along just to end it,  
> so the annual problem for our generation,  
> is finding a good way to spend it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the 13th!
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay safe, stay healthy, especially with a lot of people going back to school!

Remus shifts his weight, hoping he’ll be able to find a more comfortable position in the armchair if he does.

Dumbledore sits across from him, hands folded on top of his desk. The portraits on the walls of his study are still gossiping in low voices about the events of the evening before.

“So,” he says mildly, “it sounds like you’ve accomplished quite a bit since we’ve last had a chance to speak alone.”

That… that would be an understatement. Less than twelve hours ago, Remus had barged into Dumbledore’s office unannounced, dragging along with him a murderer, the man he murdered, and the murderer’s godson and two friends, and demanded that things be made right.

“I wouldn’t say I accomplished much of anything,” Remus says. He shifts once more in his chair, before silently resigning himself to discomfort for at least the next hour. 

It’s not like he hadn’t expected this. Dumbledore isn’t one to let things go: he enjoys picking things apart, understanding the nuances of even the simplest situations and filing the information away for later use.

“Has Sirius already left the school grounds?”

Remus forces himself to keep his expression neutral upon hearing Dumbledore’s casual switch to using Sirius’ given name. He nods. “To my knowledge, he’s returned to his ancestral home.”

“And remind me, where is that again?”

 _He’s playing mind tricks again,_ Remus thinks.

“I’m afraid I don’t know myself,” he says apologetically, which is a lie — he knows exactly where it is. “It’s protected by a Fidelius, so you’ll have to get in touch with Sirius and ask him directly.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Dumbledore murmurs as he peers past his spectacles. “Have you spoken with Edward recently?”

Remus does everything in his power to not grimace.

Between him and Sirius, they’d managed to persuade Harry, Hermione, and Ron to stay (rather reluctantly) silent about Ed’s involvement in the citizen’s arrest of Peter Pettigrew and the pending exoneration of Sirius Black. In every single account of the events that had transpired the evening before, there’s a glaring hole in the middle of it all that should be named Edward Elric.

“I last spoke to him, hm, I would guess over a week ago, when he had a question regarding the exams,” Remus says.

“I see. Is he doing well?”

“I think he’s much better adjusted now, considering the circumstances in which he arrived here, and I believe it’s quite safe to say he didn’t have any ties to Sirius or Peter after all,” Remus lies through his teeth.

“Are you of the opinion that Edward is simply a victim of unfortunate timing?”

 _To say the least_.

“Yes, I am. I don’t have any negative impression of the boy despite what some of the other students have imagined about him.”

“Ah, yes, the rumors about his Muggle delinquency,” Dumbledore says.

Remus can’t stop himself from doing a double-take. Since when did the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry give a single shit about student gossip?

His thoughts must be written all over his face, because Dumbledore smiles. “It’s rather amusing, isn’t it?”

“That’s certainly one way to think of it,” Remus answers diplomatically.

“I suppose Edward hasn’t done anything untoward,” Dumbledore says, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. “Perhaps I was too quick to judge.”

Remus stays purposefully silent, which he knows Dumbledore will recognize as polite agreement.

“I do have one last request, if it isn’t too much to ask,” the Headmaster says after some time.

“It would depend on the request,” Remus answers warily.

Dumbledore smiles again. “How would you feel about continuing in your position for the next year as well? The students speak highly of you and I’m most certain they’d appreciate your help as they continue to learn Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

“You want me to continue teaching?” Remus asks, startled. 

“If it wouldn’t be too much to ask of you,” Dumbledore says, as if this isn’t the first stable job Remus has had since graduating sixteen years prior.

“I’d be happy to do so,” Remus says instead of pointing that out.

“Then it looks like I’ll be relying on you once again.”

“Yes,” Remus sighs, “it would seem so.”

* * * * *

The Great Hall is filled to capacity for the end-of-year feast.

Everyone is waiting impatiently for Dumbledore to finish talking at them so that they can eat, but he’s taking his time randomly assigning last minute points and sharing information like who won the House Cup (not Hufflepuff, Ed single-handedly guaranteed that) and changes to the Hogwarts staff for the next year.

“—I am happy to announce Professor Lupin will be returning to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

The Great Hall cheers, the one moment of actual excitement, as the students consider the possibility of having a competent teacher in the subject for two years in a row; the fourth years shout the loudest, as they’ll be taking their OWLs next year and they’ll most definitely need the support.

“With that, I invite you all to tuck in.”

The food appears in an instant, every dish over-the-top in its presentation: all of it piled high on solid gold tableware.

 _What kind of school_ is _this?_ Ed thinks, not for the first time, as he runs a gloved finger over the designs on his plate. _Solid fucking gold._

Ed sticks out like a sore thumb at the end of the Hufflepuff table, where he’s given a wide berth by the rest of his House mates. He’d sit next to Luna if he could, but Sprout had specifically requested that he sit with their House for the end-of-year feast — something about showing unity — and refusing her would have felt like yelling in Granny’s face.

So he’s there, since he doesn’t feel too strongly against it, and he’s shoveling food in his face since he doesn’t need to talk to anyone either. Focusing on eating is also a way to pretend he doesn’t notice Harry’s very blatant staring from the Gryffindor table.

Cedric slides into the empty space next to him and Ed just knows everyone is watching now.

“How were exams?” Cedric asks, neatly arranging a salad on his plate.

“’S fine,” Ed says with a mouth full of bread.

Cedric laughs. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“I do what I please,” Ed answers.

“I’ve noticed.” Cedric also starts eating, albeit with his utensils and impeccable table manners.

Ed almost feels ashamed — key word being “almost”. He tears into his chicken like a feral animal without another thought. 

“What are you doing over the summer?” Cedric asks in between bites of his food.

“Nothing much,” Ed lies. He can’t explain that he’ll be spending his time tracking down pieces of Riddle’s soul, so “nothing much” is probably the most accurate answer Ed can give at the moment.

“Think you’ll be going to the World Cup?”

“Not really my thing,” Ed answers. “You?”

Cedric smiles, all boyish charm and natural charisma. “My dad and I are planning on it. I’m excited to see Krum play in person!”

“Who’s Krum?”

The other boy looks aghast. “Viktor Krum? He’s on the Bulgarian national team and he’s my age!”

Ed almost smiles; that’s twice now that his lack of Quidditch knowledge has riled up a wizard, and fairly mild-mannered ones at that.

“Never heard of him.”

This sparks something in Cedric, who feels that Ed is in desperate need of a crash-course in Quidditch. The impromptu lecture actually draws in other members of their House, who tentatively offer their opinions on certain players and teams. As they notice Ed doesn’t stab them with a fork or attempt any violent action at all, they visibly relax and become more animated as they bicker over how fast a Snitch can actually fly or the weight of a professional league Bludger versus a school-assigned one.

Ed, for the most part, doesn’t think much of it; he asks a couple questions, but is mostly content to listen to Cedric list stats by heart and snort as other Hufflepuffs (that he’s never spoken to) argue about who the “best” Quidditch player in history is.

He happens to glance at Sprout after commenting on Hannah Abbott’s assessment of their own Hogwarts Quidditch teams and is struck by the extremely proud expression on her face, her plump cheeks even redder than usual from smiling so hard.

 _I’ll try to get along with them next year_ , he thinks to himself. _I promise_.

* * * * *

A Hufflepuff, three Gryffindors, and a Ravenclaw sit together in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express that is realistically too small to accomodate all of them and their luggage. They’re joking about how they’ll never fit and a few of them exclaim when their feet are trod on by another person, but they’re happy enough to chat and laugh about whatever they’d like as they wait for the train to depart.

That same compartment comes to a standstill when the door slides open and reveals a Slytherin standing on the other side, looking unbearably awkward about being there at all.

“May I join you?” Blaise asks, polite in spite of his nerves.

“Yeah, of course,” Fred says, before Ed can even process what is happening. “We’ve plenty of room.”

There is, in fact, no room at all, but everyone inside is already moving to make space for Blaise, squeezing together so that he can sit to Luna’s left, right against the door.

“Like I was saying,” Neville starts up again once everyone is settled, “I don’t think I have a good enough understanding of Muggle culture to ever go out there alone and Gran would probably laugh herself to death watching me have a go at it on my own.”

“Your gran has a better sense of humor than I would’ve thought,” Ed comments.

“I like the Muggles,” Luna adds. “I think they’ve got fascinating imaginations, despite how little they actually know about magic.”

“What do you mean?” George asks, always relatively serious in his consideration of hypotheticals and the unknown.

“There are some writers out there who’ve written stories about wizards,” Luna explains, “and while they don’t ever accurately depict magic, I find it incredible that so many of them from all over the world came up with the same idea that people might be capable of, well, of _more_ in another time and place.”

“Maybe those authors are actually Squibs?” Neville says. “That would explain how they know about magic.”

“I doubt it,” Luna responds. “They don’t seem to know enough about actual magic to even be considered Squibs. And some of the things they come up with are far more inventive than what we wizards are actually capable of now.”

“Have you ever read any of Tolkien’s work?”

Everyone in the compartment stares at Blaise, who’s waiting on a response from Luna.

She smiles. “Of course. It’s rather frightening how much magic one Muggle can create with words, isn’t it? The power of writing… it’s unfathomable.”

Neville, Fred, George, and Ed have no idea what she’s referring to, but Blaise nods, the corners of his lips turning up ever so slightly.

“I would be less surprised to find out he actually had been a wizard of sorts,” Blaise agrees.

“You read Muggle literature?” Fred all but screams.

The Slytherin shrugs, entirely unfazed by the other boy’s theatrics. “I was curious when I was younger and my mother didn’t take issue with the idea. It’s also a great deal more interesting than anything we’ve been asked to read for Hogwarts. You should try it sometime.”

“Oh yes,” Luna interjects, “I think everyone should try Muggle books! There’s so much of it and there’s something for everyone.”

“Agreed,” Ed says. “Shakespeare’s pretty good.”

“I imagine you just enjoy finding such relatable characters,” Blaise says, a tiny smirk growing on his face. “They are, after all, _dumbasses_ like you, right?”

Ed snarls without any heat behind it, while the other people sitting in the compartment eye Blaise curiously and then exchange glances. It’s pretty obvious Blaise has just used a word from Ed’s language, which has been something of an unsolved mystery since the beginning of the year. They all silently agree to ask about it later, so as to not put either Ed or Blaise on the spot.

“We should have a book club or something,” George suggests, “because I’m all for learning, but I can’t be bothered to get through any book on my own.” He jokes, “Someone has got to keep me accountable.”

Ed thinks George suggests it more for Fred’s sake than his own, considering how Fred’s struggle to read often ends with him avoiding the activity entirely.

“It’s a great idea,” he says, the first to agree to it. “Half of us” — Blaise glances at Ed with slightly wide eyes — “already read a shit ton of Muggle writing, so we’d have a good foundation to build off of.”

Neville smiles. “I wouldn’t mind it. What would we start with?”

“Why not something with a little magic?” Luna suggests.

“Love it,” Fred says immediately. “What do you have in mind?”

“I read a book about the history of something called e-leck-trickety the other day,” Luna says. “We could start there.”

Ed makes a strained sound. “Electricity?”

“That’s the bitch,” Luna says cheerfully.

“Watch your fucking language,” Ed says immediately, before covering his face with his hands. “ _Holy fucking shit, this is my worst nightmare_.”

“What?”

“He said something along the lines of ‘fuck crap my bad dream’,” Blaise says.

Fred opens his mouth in a silent scream and stares at the rest of the group as if to say, “did Blaise Zabini really just say that with his own mouth?”

“You understood that?” Neville asks, rather impressed.

Blaise gently tugs on the collar of his robes and swallows. “I suppose I did.”

“We’re reading about electricity first,” Ed speaks over them, “because the lack of scientific understanding in this train carriage is a god-damn outrage.”

The rest of them shrug.

“As long as it’s magic,” Fred says.

Ed wheezes. “It’s not, that’s not, that — AGH!”

* * * * *

Ed’s friends are kind and patient enough to endure his rant about the “science” of “electricity”, nodding the entire time like they understand a single word out of his mouth when they absolutely do not.

“What exactly _is_ ‘science’,” Fred whispers to George.

“I think it’s some Muggle version of magic? Or maybe it’s more along the lines of potion-making? I didn’t fully understand Ed’s explanation,” George whispers back. 

After an especially angry and technical explanation of “lightbulbs”, George adds quietly, “We should probably listen to dad when he talks about work.”

“No kidding,” Fred says, eyebrows furrowed as Ed starts detailing the parts of an “Adam”, like the “pro-tawn” and “e-leck-trawn”.

Luna eventually asks him to buy her a tin of lemon drops from the trolley, slipping him a Sickle and ushering him out of the compartment to cool off. It’s probably for the best, because Ed is literally yelling about the scientific achievement of things like the lightbulb to a bunch of teenagers who can wave light into existence with a stick.

He’s on his way back from the trolley when he runs into Harry Potter, who’s strategically placed himself in Ed’s way.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“I’d rather not,” Ed says honestly.

Harry scowls, but doesn’t leave. “Why didn’t you say anything about Si–, er, about, about Padfoot earlier in the year?”

Ed actually laughs at that. “You’re telling me that if I came up to you out of nowhere three months ago and told you Sirius Black didn’t actually want to murder you, you’d just take my word for it?”

Harry opens and closes his mouth several times as he tries to refute Ed’s hypothetical. “Well, it wouldn’t have hurt to try!”

“Look, my life for the last few months would have been a million times easier if I could have just told you and Sirius to get over yourselves and have a proper conversation, but that wasn’t my decision to make.”

“Why not?”

“Between the rumors of my ‘delinquency’ and that other bullshit about an escaped convict looking to get rid of you, I wonder why I didn’t think you’d appreciate it all that much.”

Talking to Harry reminds Ed of their respective ages and lived experiences. 

Harry definitely hasn’t had it easy (at least from what Ed’s read about in books and heard in the hallways), but he’s only thirteen and he’s a student. Sure, he’s dealt with Riddle on three separate occasions, but he was then and still is a kid first and foremost; he’s surrounded by teenagers his age and he’s somewhat protected by the adults in his life (not well, admittedly).

On the other hand, Ed has had a full-time job as a member of the national military for the last three years, not to mention he hasn’t had much adult supervision since his mom died, unless it’s a string of orders barked at him by a superior. He’s been living as an adult for the majority of his life now, because if he isn’t responsible for himself and for Al, who would be?

He tries to be understanding about where their differences lie.

“Dumbledore might have your best interests at heart,” Ed starts, “but I was an unknown variable in his equation. In his eyes, anything I did that was deemed suspicious would be proof that I either couldn’t be trusted or that I was bad fucking news. You get it? Me trying to tell you about Sirius before things worked out the way they did would’ve been a guaranteed disaster.”

“He’s not like that,” Harry says hotly. “He’d have believed you, if you’d tried to explain.”

“He’s not like that _to you_ ,” Ed points out. “He doesn’t know me, though. It’s the logical thing to do, I mean, fuck, I’d do it too. Keep your enemies close, you know?”

“What enemies?” Harry retorts. “You’re just a kid.”

“So? _You’re_ just a kid and you have enemies. _And_ you get involved with shady crap every single year. _And_ you drag your friends into it.” He spots Ron peeking out from four doors down. “Said friends are waiting on you.”

Harry turns to look at Ron, who makes a face and then disappears back into the compartment. 

“We’re talking about this again,” Harry says. “I want answers.”

“That’s nice. Maybe someday you’ll get them.”

Ed enters his own compartment without looking back.

“Who was that?” Fred asks.

“Does it matter?”

“Not at all,” George answers. “Hurry up and sit down. We’re about to start a round of Exploding Snap.”

Ed does just that, settling himself down between Neville and Fred as Luna deals out cards. Blaise holds them gingerly, as if he’s afraid that touching them at all will burn him. Fred and George give the Slytherin crap for not knowing how to play, but it’s done in good humor and Ed almost sees Blaise huff a laugh at one point. Luna and Neville take turns explaining the rules to Blaise and Ed.

All things considered, Ed’s had a _relatively_ good year and he leaves Hogwarts surrounded by friends.

* * * * *

They agree to meet in two weeks' time for their informal Muggle-books-book-club at Ranklebury’s Café on the corner of Axe-Cedent Alley. 

Like Diagon Alley, the entrance is placed strategically in plain sight in Muggle London, but Axe-Cedent Alley is filled with odds and ends from smaller, independently-owned shops.

“Which is why it’s not as popular as Diagon Alley,” Luna explains. “The stores aren’t as well-known, but it’s where the young people go nowadays.”

“Young people,” Ed repeats with a snort. “You’re ‘young people’.”

“I’m ancient and all-knowing,” Luna replies as she finishes braiding Ed’s hair.

“If I’m not mistaken, there should also be a Muggle bookstore somewhere nearby the entrance,” Blaise says, well-informed as ever about trends and up-and-coming locations, “so we shouldn’t have a problem finding things to read.”

“Electricity first,” Ed insists.

“We know,” the Gryffindors groan in unison. 

Blaise purses his lips in what might be considered a smile.

“Just making sure,” Ed responds, defensive. If he has to learn about Quidditch and other useless wizard stuff, they should at least learn about electricity. (Personally, he thinks the twins would excel at chemistry, given the opportunity to study it.)

The Hogwarts Express will be pulling into the station in less than fifteen minutes. The overly crowded compartment becomes a mass of limbs and robes as everyone tries to grab their trunks and sort out their other belongings, but by the end, somehow, they manage to collect all of their things and get off the train without losing any extremities (which is extremely fortunate for Ed, who doesn’t have many left to lose).

They stand on the platform and say their goodbyes, with Luna eventually pulling everyone, including Blaise, into a group hug.

From the expression on Blaise’s face, Ed is willing to bet that if he were to touch the other boy’s cheeks right now, they’d be warm from blushing. He wonders if Blaise thanks his dark complexion for allowing him to maintain his “I’m too cool to be embarrassed” facade and feels the tiniest bit irritated that his ears always give him away.

The Slytherin disappears shortly after the hug with a firm promise to meet at the agreed upon time and place.

Shortly after, Luna walks off to greet a man, with hair longer than hers and Ed’s, with a curtsy. He returns with a bow and then offers her his arm, which she takes with a happy smile and together they leave the station.

“Have you ever read _The Quibbler_?” Neville asks as they watch Luna and her father disappear into the mass of people on the platform.

Ed hasn’t read wizarding newspapers since he finally caught Sirius a few months back. “Nope. I’ll have to check it out sometime.”

“It’s, er, it’s definitely something,” Neville says. He spots someone, who Ed guesses is Neville’s grandmother. “See you around!” Neville calls, waving as he rushes off to meet Augusta Longbottom on the other side of the platform.

Fred slings an arm around Ed’s shoulder. “Can’t believe we won’t be seeing you around.”

“You’re talking like we’re not going to see each other at all,” Ed says, snorting.

“How will we ever live without your sass,” George adds, ignoring Ed’s logic.

“Or your _ass_ ,” Fred corrects. He takes a moment to think about it before announcing, “I guess we’ll just die.”

“When you speak at our funeral, speak of us fondly,” George says.

“Make sure to tell everyone how madly in love with me you were!”

“And don’t forget to say that you settled for the less attractive twin.”

“We’re identical! You’re insulting yourself — ha!”

“Sure,” George says dismissively, which only serves to further rile his brother up.

“You two need to hurry up and go home,” Ed says. He can already make out the rest of the Weasleys waiting on the platform, a huddle of redheads who are completely pallid in comparison to Harry and Hermione’s darker complexions.

“You should meet mum,” Fred decides, already grabbing Ed by the elbow and directing him towards the Weasleys.

Ed doesn’t want to deal with Harry, Hermione, and Ron so soon after their shared ride on the Hot Mess Express just two days prior, but he hasn’t forgotten that Mrs. Weasley made him a sweater for Christmas and he’s wanted to thank her for it ever since; it is quite honestly the only red article of clothing he has and it makes him think of his spectacular jacket back home.

“Fine,” Ed grouches. “This is probably going to be a disaster.”

“Your uncanny ability to be a natural disaster is the only reason we like you,” Fred says.

Ed punches him in the shoulder for the comment.

“And it won’t be a disaster,” George insists. “Mum’ll like you. She likes all our friends.”

“What friends? Lee? Everyone likes Lee,” Ed complains.

“Everyone likes you too,” Fred says, a big grin on his face, “so you’ll be alright.”

“More like everyone likes to spread unfounded rumors about me,” Ed says, scrunching his nose in distaste. “Including you two, now that I think about it.”

“Only because we can say anything and everyone else will believe it.” Fred smiles.

George pinches Ed’s side. “Stop worrying about it and say hi.”

The Weasleys have noticed them now for sure and Ed feels self-conscious under their stares. It’s one thing to meet other kids, it’s a whole other thing to meet your friends’ parents. 

There’s also the fact that Ed has literally never had friends that had parents to meet. 

In the back of his mind, he wishes he could take his gloves off for once so that the first impression he makes isn’t so fucking weird.

“Mum! This is Ed,” Fred announces, gesturing to Ed excitedly.

None of the Golden Trio are happy to see him, but the feeling is mutual.

“Hello Mrs. Weasley,” Ed says after a beat of silence. He holds out his left hand for her to shake. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Mrs. Weasley is a plump woman with kind eyes and a face made friendly by laugh lines and crow’s feet. She smiles at Ed and reaches out to pull him into a hug, startling him.

“It’s good to meet you, dear, I’ve heard loads about you from Fred and George over Christmas.”

“I wanted to thank you for the sweater, ma’am.” Ed ignores Fred’s restrained laughter at his out-of-character politeness.

“Oh, think nothing of it! George picked the color, did it fit you alright? I’m afraid I wasn’t sure what size it should be, so I made do with some suggestions from Fred.” Just by looking at Ed, he’s sure she knows the sweater had been too large.

“It was perfect,” he reassures her anyway. “I wore it often during the winter.”

Mrs. Weasley smiles again. “This is Arthur, my husband,” she says, “and I’m sure you know everyone else.”

Mr. Weasley somehow manages to look even friendlier than his wife and has redder hair than her too. He shakes Ed’s hand enthusiastically, commenting enthusiastically on Ed’s “Muggle robes”. 

While Ed does know who Percy and Ginny are, he’s never actually spoken to them. He waves awkwardly and Ginny returns it with a quirk of her lips. Percy raises an eyebrow.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione are still glaring daggers at him, which Mrs. and Mr. Weasley don’t pick up on at all.

“I should get going,” Ed says. “It was lovely meeting you.”

Fred outright laughs and George snorts.

“He said lovely,” Fred whispers.

“Who do we tell first,” George whispers back.

Mrs. Weasley frowns at her sons, unable to hear their running commentary on Ed’s word choice, but knowing it can’t be polite. Ed continues to pretend they aren’t being annoying right beside him.

“Alright, dear, take care now! And don’t be a stranger,” she says.

Fred slings an arm around Ed’s shoulders. “Yes, don’t be a stranger, you should come visit us at the Burrow this weekend.”

Ed opens his mouth to refuse, but Mrs. Weasley speaks up. “Oh, that’s a wonderful idea, Fred. Please feel free to visit! Merlin knows the boys could do with some good influence.”

Mrs. and Mr. Weasley smile brightly, but all of the Weasley children glance dubiously at Ed upon hearing the words “good influence”.

“That… sounds great,” Ed replies lamely. “Thank you for the invitation.”

The twins high-five and the Golden Trio glare and Ginny just waves again.

“Bye Ed,” she says nonchalantly, “see you soon.”

“Right,” he says hesitantly, “see you… soon.”

Ron mutters something about bringing nutcases back like they’re feral cats and Ginny stamps on his foot. Ed pretends he didn’t see it happen and grabs his suitcase.

“Don’t forget us,” Fred calls out as he walks away.

“I can’t,” Ed responds. “I’ll be seeing you in less than a week.”

“That’s the idea,” George says. “Bye!”

* * * * *

Ed doesn’t know what he expected outside of the wizarding world, but he should have known Truth might have set him up like this for a laugh.

It’s not like Ed could have missed the year — currently 1994 — written on every newspaper and every chalkboard in class, and somehow not realized that it is precisely eighty years in the future. The very first moment he’d been confronted by the date, he’d shrugged off the disparity, since he had already been thrown into an entirely new world anyway. Why would the date matter to him in a world with shitty alchemy and literal magic?

But he had noticed wizarding research avoids or outright dismisses Muggle inventions and achievements, which is why Ed hadn’t realized just how different life outside of Hogwarts is going to be for someone who is technically a time-displaced Muggle.

Stepping out of a brick wall into the non-magical part of King’s Cross, Ed immediately notices the sleek metal shape of the Muggle trains, a stark contrast to the Hogwarts Express and to the trains Ed is accustomed to in Amestris. Everything is metal and glass and some brick and it’s vaguely familiar, but also somehow different. Some people are dressed in familiar clothes, like suits and whatnot, but other are wearing clothes that are far too loose and ill-fitting to really be proper. Some people are just wearing what Ed would consider pajamas.

Walking out of the station, he notices the cars are different too, and there are so _many_ of them. They’re a lot quieter and less clunky than the automobiles he’s used to. 

“I’ve got to catch up on so much research,” Ed grumbles to himself as he eyes the cars passing by.

He hails what he thinks is a cab and gingerly gets in.

“Where you headin’?”

“12 Grimmauld Place?”

“...you sure it’s twelve?”

“...no?”

The driver grunts. “That’s gonna cost you.”

Ed sighs. “It’s fine.”

The cab ride takes roughly twenty-five minutes, but eventually, the driver pulls the car over on a street filled with townhouses. After paying the grouchy driver with some (previously exchanged) Muggle money and climbing out of the cab, Ed realizes why the driver had questioned the given address to begin with.

There isn’t a 12 Grimmauld Place. There’s an 11 and a 13, but no 12.

At least the Muggle part of the street provides some sense of familiarity as it looks reminiscent of the buildings one might find in Central, although there’s a lot of brick here, in comparison to the smooth beige stones commonly found in Amestrian cities.

As Ed wanders closer to the buildings to double-check the numbers, there’s an incredibly grating sound and he watches in shock as an entire house squeezes itself out of the brickwork.

It looks exactly like its neighbors, by nature of being townhouses, but it somehow manages to impress upon viewers that it is an imposing building that is not to be disturbed or taken lightly. 

_Still beats military quarters._

The front door is unlocked, which means Ed walks in without a second thought and Sirius tackles him the moment he steps into the foyer.

“I was so bored I thought I was going to die,” he groans, laying his entire weight on Ed.

“It’s been less than forty-eight hours,” Ed points out.

“Going to _die_ ,” Sirius says again for emphasis, making no effort to get up.

“You complete child,” Ed says, with a snort before rolling Sirius off of him.

The man lands on the floor with an undignified “umph!” and lays boneless on the floor, while Ed stands up and dusts himself off.

“I’m bored,” Sirius says again, the sound muffled because his face is pressed into the carpet.

“That’s disturbing.”

“My boredom disturbs you?” Sirius looks up from his spot on the floor and sees Ed staring at the glass cases of embalmed heads. “Oh, yeah, my family had awful taste, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are they real?”

Sirius nods. “Past house elves. My mother couldn’t bear to ‘part’ with them, she said. If you ask me, it’s more likely some sort of display of status, showing we had this many house elves around at one point.”

“Is everything in here, like, well, like _this_?”

“I already told you no one lives here, what did you expect? I also wouldn’t touch anything, you never know what’s cursed in here.”

Ed opens his mouth to retort, but is promptly overpowered by a shrill scream.

“FILTHY TRAITOR, WHO HAVE YOU INVITED INTO THIS HOUSE! YOU SHOULD HAVE —“

His hands are covering his ears. “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?”

“MY MOTHER ATTACHED A PORTRAIT OF HERSELF WITH A PERMANENT STICKING CHARM IN THE HALLWAY BECAUSE SHE’S A MISERABLE OLD COW!” Sirius shouts back as he races down the hall.

Ed follows, hands still pressed to the sides of his head. “THAT’S YOUR MOTHER?”

The hallway is covered with portraits of unsmiling wizards and witches dressed in severe black robes; the largest is a framed portrait of a thin woman with sunken eyes and unnaturally white teeth, who’s screaming at the top of her lungs.

“GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!, YOU HEATHEN! YOU DESERVE TO —“

Sirius attempts to quiet the painting by yanking a strategically placed curtain over her image. The sound of her shrieking is slightly muffled and eventually, the string of curses and general threats to their well-being dies out.

“She’s actually a great deal kinder today than she was when she first saw me walk in,” Sirius remarks in a way that Ed knows, from experience, is an attempt at humor to temporarily bandage a bigger issue.

“Why was the curtain even open if she’s like this?”

Sirius groans. “Kreacher.”

“What?”

“It’s ‘who’.”

“Who?”

“House elf,” Sirius says, as if that is explanation enough.

Ed just lets it go. If it’s important, he’ll find out later.

Sirius nods towards a door off the hallway and Ed follows him into what appears to be a sitting room.

“Can’t imagine what growing up with her must’ve been like,” Ed says randomly.

Sirius shrugs, unbothered. “My family detested me and I left home the summer I turned sixteen.”

“Oh.” 

“It wasn’t a big deal at all,” he continues, when he notices the way Ed’s face shutters, “Prongs and his parents let me move in with them and my life became significantly better from that day onward.”

“It didn't bother you at all?”

Sirius scrunches his nose. “Er, I guess I had some regrets about the way things ended up with my brother, but I think I didn’t have anything left for me here. I mean, just look at the place.” He gestures to the decor and general aesthetic of the house. “It’s not really a place for a person like me.”

Ed is pretty curious about Sirius’ brother — about the fact that he had one and didn’t mention it at all until this point — but he remembers that he’d also told Ed he’s the only person alive to occupy the house now.

Which is depressing, really. The house itself is a soulless place, shadowy and dim and filled with creepy knick-knacks.

It’s also haunted by the worst kind of ghosts: memories.

“Do you have any strong attachments to the physical appearance of this place?”

“Not at all, why?”

Ed glances at the wallpaper and the ornate fireplace and thinks about the preserved heads and the scowling portraits surrounding them. He remembers the goal he set out with when he turned his childhood home to ash. “I think it’s overdue for a makeover.”

A grin spreads across Sirius’ face. “You know what? I agree.”

“Alright, well, you and I can probably get started by doing something about the eyesore hanging on your wall.” 

Sirius is all too ready for that, but they run into the problem called Kreacher the second Ed even attempts to remove Walburga Black.

There’s a loud crack. “What does friend of filthy traitor think he is doing?”

Ed nearly punches the house elf across the length of the hallway on instinct. “Fuck, you scared the crap out of me.”

His crude language doesn’t endear him to the house elf at all. If anything, Kreacher’s wrinkled face puckers all the more for it. “What is you doing, friend of filthy traitor?”

“Who’s this?”

Sirius sighs. “That’s Kreacher, the one who keeps opening the curtain. Unfortunately, he comes with the house and he thinks the sun shines out of my mother’s arse.”

Kreacher scowls. “Mistress Black would not like you to speak of her that way,” he snaps. “This house belongs to Mistress.”

“She’s dead, Kreacher. It belongs to me,” Sirius says, and by the sound of it, not for the first time.

Kreacher points a knobby finger at the closed curtains in front of the portrait. “What has filthy traitor done to Mistress?”

“That’s not her,” Sirius says, “and stop calling me that, will you? I’m technically the last Black there’ll ever be.”

Kreacher’s face crumples. With another resounding crack, the house elf disappears.

“He’s not a fan, I take it,” Ed says, staring at the spot where Kreacher had been standing moments before. _Is that considered Apparating?_

“He’s of the opinion that the family line died when my brother did.”

Ed takes a moment to decide if he’s really going to broach the subject before giving into his curiosity. “Older or younger?” he asks quietly.

“Younger. We used to get on pretty well, before the Sorting happened and I was declared a traitor to my family and heritage and all of that nonsense about blood purity.” He shrugs and gives Ed a gloomy smile. “Regulus couldn’t even look at me after that.”

Sirius turns to focus on the covered portrait of his mother. Ed follows suit as he reflects on Sirius’ words.

Ed’s favorite person is, without question, Al. To imagine a life where he could go from having Al’s unconditional support to being scorned by his brother for superficial reasons — he doesn’t think there could be anything worse.

The one thing he never asked Al is whether he resented Ed for the human transmutation.

He couldn’t bear to do it, because he feels like he already knows the answer.

“I have–, I _had_ a younger brother,” Ed blurts out on a whim. “He thought the world of me when we were younger, but he’d always been more mature and a lot of people thought he was the older one.” The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but quickly drops once more. “He is, _was_ my best friend… and I let him down,” Ed mumbles. “I don’t think he ever felt he could say it to me, because he’s too nice and considerate and shit, but I didn’t need him to say it to know it was the truth.”

Sirius glances at Ed, but doesn’t turn to face him, for which he is incredibly grateful. 

“You too?”

“Me too,” Ed agrees, trying to swallow the lump in his throat.

In the ensuing silence, he’s overwhelmed by the urge to run away. 

Run away to anywhere that isn’t here. 

Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Sirius, thinking about Al, thinking about what kind of person Regulus might have been to abandon his brother over something so trivial, Ed wants to run away from his own honesty.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did you open your fucking mouth?_

He couldn’t stand the idea of having this discussion with Al, why the fuck is he doing this now with Sirius? What in Truth’s name had compelled him to do this?

“What's he called? Your brother.”

Ed blinks a few times as he pulls himself out of his chaotic inner monologue. “I called him Al. Alphonse.”

"Mhm. Reg never did like it when I called him anything short of his formal title." Sirius rolls his eyes. He pauses for a moment, and then continues. “You think about this a lot, don’t you.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

_How can I not?_

Sirius twists his lips to the side before reaching out to ruffle Ed’s hair. He doesn’t bother to stop him.

“You’re still a kid, you realize? The world shouldn’t rest on your shoulders.” Ed can tell that Sirius is trying to keep his tone light and can clearly see the way the man is struggling to find the right thing to say. “I’m not going to ask what happened, because that’s for you to share, but I doubt someone like you could let anyone down. You’re far too annoying to let anything go. And I’m sure Al didn’t say anything because he didn’t actually think that you’d let him down in the first place.”

Ed doubts that, has doubted it ever since he woke up and realized he might be missing a couple limbs, but Al was missing his entire body.

There are fingers pinching his cheek.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Ed jerks back.

“You looked like you needed some distraction,” he says innocently.

“We both do,” Ed grumbles. He rubs a hand over against his face. “Let’s… let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“I can do that for now,” Sirius agrees. “Merlin knows I have my own issues to work out. How about I make us something to eat and we can repress our feelings together?”

Ed’s mildly surprised Sirius will even admit he has issues to begin with.

“What’s the worst that can happen,” he sighs, following the older man to the kitchen.

* * * * *

The worst that can happen is this: the kitchen is _on fire_ and it’s entirely Sirius’ fault.

Again, the kitchen _is on fire_.

* * * * *

There’s an awkwardness hanging in the air between them, which Sirius tries to change with a mix of sarcastic comments and well-meaning jokes that make the situation all the more uncomfortable.

What really pulls both of them from lingering on the honesty of their feelings is the atrocious manner in which Sirius commands a kitchen.

The first thing he does when he walks into the room is to set a giant cauldron, filled with a negligible amount of water, on top of the stove and promptly forget about it.

Ed watches dumbfounded as the man blunders his way around the cabinets and drawers, seasoning vegetables and raw meat with whatever he can find, like uncooked grains of rice and what is more likely sugar than salt.

“That’s, ugh, that’s just… have you ever cooked in your life?” 

Sirius looks up from his increasingly disturbing concoction. “What? No. How hard can it be? I took my NEWT in Potions, I know what I’m doing.”

“Potions aren’t the same as food,” Ed argues. “Potions don’t necessarily have to taste good.” 

Sirius tosses something that looks vaguely like dried salamanders into the mix.

“Potions also are sometimes meant to kill people.”

“Mind your manners, brat.” Sirius adds a handful of miscellaneous round gelatinous things to the mix and Ed tries not to gag.

He’s pretty sure those were eyeballs. Or frog’s eggs. Either way, he doesn’t care to find out.

“Maybe I should cook,” he says.

“I’m perfectly capable of cooking. Don’t underestimate me.”

And that’s when the cauldron of now completely evaporated water catches on fire.

In the chaos that follows, Sirius tries to swat the fire out with a rag. 

The rag is quick to go up in flames and he shouts, throwing it across the kitchen onto a wooden cabinet, which immediately begins to burn. 

Ed runs to extinguish the fire on the cabinet but slips on the tiles and crashes into it instead. 

The cabinet tips over and smashes into chunks of burning wood and broken porcelain all over the floor.

“Use your wand!” Sirius yells. He’s trying to fill a pail with water.

“Oh shit,” Ed yells back, “I forgot!”

Ultimately, Ed does put out the fire with a frantic _Aguamenti_ but there are several patches of charred tiles on the floor, a broken, smouldering cabinet, and a million pieces of fine china shattered to bits. The cauldron definitely needs to be thrown out and Sirius’ inedible concoction still lays raw and unappetizing on the bare counter.

“You are _banned_ ,” Ed says, pressing his knuckles into his eye sockets as he takes in the damage, “indefinitely _banned_ from cooking.”

“This isn’t _only_ my fault,” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t break the cabinet.”

“Banned,” Ed repeats anyways.

In an attempt to further shame Sirius, Ed buries the uncooked chicken in the backyard and carves a rock to bear the words, “Here lies Sirius Black’s competency”.

And the heaviness of the earlier conversation is all but forgotten as they bicker over who’ll be responsible for cooking for the rest of summer.

* * * * *

Life at 12 Grimmauld Place settles into something relaxed and domestic rather quickly.

Ed and Sirius are both up early each morning (neither sleeps particularly well at night) and Ed has taken over all kitchen duties, after that initial attempt on the first day. He isn’t the best cook, but at the very least, he’s capable of following a recipe and creating something edible.

Outside of meals, they spend most of their time going through different parts of the house, cataloging what’s in which room while Sirius also points out various objects that may or may not be cursed for future reference. They start cleaning the place up a bit, but are more focused on what needs to be done in order to renovate the house, with the first order of business figuring out how to remove the wall Walburga Black had herself permanently adhered to.

Ed regularly gets into verbal fights with her portrait, whose curtains are opened vindictively by Kreacher whenever they aren’t looking.

There’s also a fair amount of paperwork happening in the background, sent to Sirius by Dumbledore. It’s a bunch of formalities that state when and where Sirius should be at any given time, when he’ll be able to have a trial to appeal against his conviction, and other bureaucratic nonsense that doesn’t change from reality to reality.

Most of the paperwork doesn’t actually matter, since Peter Pettigrew is in custody and awaiting trial himself, but it is physical proof of Sirius’ upcoming emancipation and he’s thrilled by the prospect.

Sirius can’t leave the house until everything is finalized, but Ed can and he’s basically a Muggle, so he never actually goes into wizarding London to buy groceries and other supplies; he usually just gets around the neighborhood by foot. 

This is extremely confusing for Sirius, who tells Ed he can use the Floo if he wants to, but Ed turns him down.

“I like Muggles,” Ed says plainly.

“Now that, I can believe.”

Ed rarely uses magic, now that he’s not required to do so for school. It drives Sirius insane, because he won’t be allowed a new wand until the trial is over and that’s not planned to happen until the middle of summer. Ed imagines it’d be like losing his alchemy, so he tries to be understanding about it, even though alchemy isn’t nearly as pervasive in its everyday usage as magic is.

“This’d be easier if I had my wand,” Sirius grumbles as they sit in the kitchen. He’s not actually doing anything, he’s just watching Ed measure out appropriate amounts of flour and milk to bake bread.

“Some things are better done manually,” Ed replies, focusing on the task at hand.

“Ergh, I forget sometimes you had some kind of weird Muggle upbringing.”

“Just means I can survive without a wand, unlike _some_ people.”

“Shut up, brat.”

“Never.”

Things aren’t always so easy, unfortunately.

Ed had picked the guest room farthest from Sirius’ childhood bedroom as possible, because he doesn’t want to wake Sirius in the middle of the night. He’s never stopped having nightmares and the grim appearance of the house has only aggravated the intensity of his dreams.

They both find out pretty quickly that neither of them sleep through the night, but they’re both unwilling to talk about it, especially Ed, after feeling a certain amount of regret for sharing something so important to him on his first day here. 

He has been working on being more open, although he’s rather picky about what he will and won’t share with other people. And it’s not like no one knows he has a brother. George definitely knows, so Fred probably does too, and he’d told Neville about his family somewhat, so there’s no way he doesn’t know.

But all of that information had been shared after having been scrubbed clean of any compromising details — no mentions of childhood hardships or alchemical transgressions.

What he had said to Sirius… that had been a little too close. Maybe, a little too _real_.

Saying he has (had?) a brother is fine, because it’s a statement of fact. Saying he’d let Al down and Al probably holds it against him is not so fine, because it’s in the realm of sharing his feelings and Ed doesn't know if he's ready to actually do that.

Then again, if there’s at least one person who might understand him, it’d probably be Sirius, right?

Sirius, who’d also had some family issues and who’d also been a disappointing older brother and who’d also endured something that fundamentally changes you as a person.

Maybe that’s why sometimes Ed feels torn when he catches himself about to say something that reveals too much, because he doesn’t know what’ll make him feel lonelier: saying nothing or saying something.

It’s something Ed thinks about every night he lies down to sleep and it’s something he never quite resolves before he passes out.

He hopes he’ll find the answer soon.

* * * * *

Ed gets a letter from Fred and George insisting he come to the Burrow on Saturday, complete with instructions on how to use the Floo to reach them.

When asked how the owl that delivered the letter found him, Sirius answers vaguely, something about the limitations of the Fidelius in regards to non-humans, mostly for the sake of mail delivered by owls and errands run by house elves.

“That’s a fucking nightmare,” Ed scowls. “Someone could send me a cursed object or something to kill me in the mail and it’ll just show up? Even though they don’t know where I am.”

“Sounds about right,” Sirius says. “What’s the problem?”

“This house isn’t secure, _that’s_ the problem!”

Sirius laughs. “Wow, you’re really paranoid. Relax, alright? Purebloods have been living like this for centuries and most of them haven’t been mysteriously murdered by post.”

Ed widens his eyes. “Most? But not all?”

He laughs again in a dismissive way. 

Ed swears under his breath that he’ll research a means to patch the holes in the Fidelius’ performance as a security system.

* * * * *

Saturday comes around and Ed steps into the fireplace at Grimmauld Place and steps out of the fireplace at the Weasley house.

 _First, the flying motorbike. Now, teleporting fireplaces,_ Ed thinks to himself.

He’s already regretting his agreement to visit the Burrow and he’d only been welcomed inside seven minutes ago.

His main issue is the fourteen-year-old watching his every move as he sits between Fred and George at the kitchen table.

“So, _Ed_ ,” Ron starts, eyes narrowed in suspicion, “where are you from?”

“Abroad,” Ed replies vaguely. He can already tell Ron is going to scribble down his answers and send them off to Harry and Hermione as soon as he is able.

Fortunately for Ed, Mrs. and Mr. Weasley are busy, despite it being the weekend, and are out of the house, while the older Weasley siblings normally aren’t home during the summer anyway.

“Bill and Charlie work outside the country and rarely come home. Percy is… an assistant? Or something like that, for the Ministry,” George had explained.

So that leaves the twins, Ron, and Ginny at the Burrow with Ed.

“Where about?” Ron presses, leaning forward.

“Far, far away, where there are no wizards around and we live like the Muggles.”

“So you're a Muggle-born?”

“Sure.”

“Why do you wear gloves? It’s summer.”

“Ron, do you think you can leave the bloke alone? These aren’t the witch trials,” George jumps in. “He’s a guest.”

“I’m just saying! He doesn’t take them off, it’s weird!”

Fred tries to flick Ron on the forehead, but the younger boy immediately raises his hand to block him. 

“Don’t be rude to Ed,” Fred says.

Ginny tilts her head from the end of the table. “Why _do_ you wear them?” she asks, genuine curiosity in her voice.

While it’s true there were _a lot_ of rumors about the gloves at Hogwarts, no one had actually ever bothered to ask him about it, because his friends knew he didn’t want to discuss them and everyone else was too afraid. Ed isn’t cagey about his reason for wearing gloves back home, but here, automail isn’t easily explainable. 

Still, Ginny did ask. And she asked pretty politely, all things considered.

He sighs. “My right hand’s fucked up, but it looks weird to just wear one,” he says to her while ignoring the look on Ron’s face.

“Fucked up how?”

“Language.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop avoiding the question. What’s wrong with your hand?”

“Ginny, don’t—”

“Accident,” Ed says, cutting George off. He hesitates and then pulls off the glove on his left hand and waves his unmarred fingers at her. “This one’s fine, see? No battle scars,” he snorts.

Fred and George are staring but pretending they aren’t, because he hasn’t taken his gloves off in public ever since he’d woken up on the Hogwarts Express. Actually, he hasn’t stopped wearing all black and long sleeves even in the heat of the summer, which is plenty weird already.

Ron is also staring and strangely enough, he just seems disappointed.

They’re all acting as if he’d stripped naked for them in some overly intimate setting. The thought almost makes him laugh.

“So you’re not a gang-star?”

“Not a gangster,” Ed says, slightly amused as he pulls the glove back on — better not get used to having it off. “The exact opposite, probably.”

“What does that mean?” Ron asks. 

“It means that if I were to have a job, I’d be doing something the complete opposite of being a gangster. Maybe I'd join the military or something,” Ed says with half a smile on his face. 

“Military? Wizards don’t have militaries anymore,” Ron points out.

“They should seriously consider it at this rate,” Ed mutters. 

“You don’t seem disciplined enough to be joining any sort of organized group,” Ginny says astutely.

“I’m full of surprises.” That seems to be turning into his go-to phrase.

“And I’m rarely surprised,” Ginny retorts, punctuating her response with a sip of tea.

Ed turns to George. “Are all Weasleys insufferable?”

Ron makes an irritated noise and Fred lets out a peal of laughter.

“Only the cute ones,” Ginny answers with a grin.

The rest of the visit goes swimmingly. Fred and George show him around the house, Ron and Ginny trailing after them, and eventually they're outside on brooms (not Ed, who refused). He watches them play backyard-Quidditch for some time and then they're eating lunch and talking the way they normally do at school.

By the time Ed has to leave, Ginny declares he's one of the weirdest people she's ever met and that she's disappointed he's not a "gang-star" because that would be "funny", but is willing to let it go for the sake of being friends. Ron still has a suspicious look to him, but even he begrudgingly says goodbye when Ed steps into the fireplace.

_Progress, I guess._

* * * * *

When he shows up at the house for the first time, Remus walks into Ed having a full-blown argument with a portrait while Sirius offers moral support in the background.

“You should really lock the door,” he chides.

“Moony!” Sirius brightens up instantly.

Ed waves a hand, but is still talking angrily to the woman in the painting. “You’re being fucking irrational, do you—”

“You!” She interrupts Ed, pointing at Remus. “You, you absolute, utter _vermin_ — you dare to step foot in this house? YOU DARE TO BRING YOUR FILTHY BLOOD IN—”

Ed yanks a curtain over the portrait before she can say anything else, a murderous scowl on his face. It only slightly muffles the vitriol Walburga continues to spout.

“Ignore her,” he says tersely. “She’s fucking insane, she’s _insane_. I’m going to set her portrait on fire.”

“No fires in the house,” Sirius says.

“Like you can talk,” Ed snaps.

“I get the feeling I’ve missed something,” Remus says wryly.

“Nothing important,” Sirius lies.

“This idiot doesn’t know how to cook!”

“I do know how to cook!”

Remus shakes his head as he watches the pair bicker. 

“It’s like watching children squabble,” he mutters, just loud enough that they can hear it.

“Hey!”

* * * * *

It’s not obvious on the first day, or even the second, but by the third time that Remus visits the house, Ed’s pretty sure the two friends used to date back in the day.

Since it was impossible to miss, he’d known from the start that they’d been good friends who genuinely cared about each other and he could’ve guessed that perhaps they’d been involved romantically in the past, but he wasn’t certain.

Until Remus’ recent visits to the house, that is.

It’d been pretty uncomfortable the first day, where it seemed like Sirius didn’t know what to do and therefore derailed any and all conversation with self-deprecating jokes and Remus looked like he was seriously concerned for Sirius’ mental health (which is totally valid).

But just like Sirius and Ed managed to work out a natural rhythm pretty quickly, Sirius and Remus fall into old patterns just as fast.

If their current behavior is something to go off of, Ed is even willing to bet his remaining arm and leg that they’re still in love with one another now and that they’re both too idiotic to realize it or make a move even if they did.

They have some really bizarre inside jokes and are attached at the hip whenever Remus is around. Seeing them interact is like watching someone’s parents make eyes at one another after decades of happy marriage: incredibly sweet, but also disgusting at the same time.

Ed only ever watches them in the same way most people can’t help but stare at an accident they know is going to happen. Sirius will fuss over Remus and Remus will blush furiously down to his fingertips. Remus will be just a little too much of an ass to Sirius, because Sirius absolutely loves it. Ed even takes to marking down each time they share a prolonged look of any sort on a scrap of paper and ends up losing track after Look #47 in Hour 3.

“You know, I wouldn’t have agreed to live here if I’d known beforehand that I’d be forced to watch you two flirt all summer,” he says nonchalantly.

“We’re not flirting,” Sirius says, immediately.

“Denial is not a good look,” Ed replies. He doesn’t look up from where he’s chopping vegetables for stew. 

Remus is very quiet in his corner of the kitchen where he is preparing the meat. (At least he’s an adult capable of cooking for himself.)

“We are _not_!” Sirius tries again.

“Sure you aren’t. And watching two old men try to seduce each other is my favorite pastime,” Ed deadpans.

“Are you sure _you_ aren’t the old man?” Sirius shoots back. Ed doesn’t miss the way his ears color and tries very hard not to laugh in his face. _Did he think they were being subtle?_

“I might be,” he grumbles in response. “Bite me.”

“Woah there, I am not into you like _that_ —”

Ed throws the first thing he can find at Sirius, who’s now laughing so hard he can’t be bothered to dodge.

“Children, behave,” Remus says. The back of his neck and the tips of his ears are flushed.

“So, how long were you two together?”

Neither man responds and Ed snorts. “Might as well answer, I’m definitely not letting this go.”

Sirius scowls. “That’s none of your business.”

“Actually, you’re flirting in my presence so it is my business now.”

“It’s not flirting!”

Remus finishes chopping the meat and drops everything into the (repaired) cauldron before looking at Ed with a neutral expression. “We were together four years officially, seven unofficially, and then Sirius became a murderer and I decided that wasn’t something I needed in my life.”

Sirius groans quietly. “Don’t _tell_ him that!”

“Obviously, you can’t just stop your feelings for someone the way you can end a spell, so I focused on working through my guilt about James and Lily’s deaths while trying to convince myself that Sirius did actually murder all those people.”

“But you didn’t believe it.”

Remus hums. “I’m not certain I ever fully did. But I did a fairly good job of training myself to think I did.”

“And now that he’s innocent, you’re just right back where you left off?”

“Something like that,” Remus says, noncommittal in his answer.

“You make it sound so simple,” Ed says.

Remus shrugs and glances at Sirius before speaking directly to Ed. “It’s not simple. I’m sure it’ll take quite a long time for anything to ever be the way it once was, if that’s something Sirius would be interested in. And even then, it wouldn’t ever be exactly the same, we’ve got a pretty terrible decade to catch up on. But some habits die hard, I suppose, and I’ve been friends with Sirius for a large portion of my life—”

“It’s only natural you’d be close,” Ed finishes for him.

The werewolf smiles. “It’s hard to forget your first friend,” he says in agreement.

Sirius makes a small noise somewhere off to the side.

Remus clears his throat. “Normally, I wouldn’t have said all of that, but the flirting—”

“Moony!”

“—did make it your business to a certain degree and I, at the very least, am not one to run from my feelings.” He raises an eyebrow at both Sirius and Ed, who look away. “Now hand me those carrots — my Nan could finish mincing these faster than you.” A clear end to the subject.

Ed’s weapon of choice is a blade — any blade will do in a pinch, kitchen knives included — so he can’t help the offended noise he makes at the thought of someone’s grandmother handling knives better than he can.

At least his resentment makes Sirius laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello there! :-)
> 
> thanks for reading and for commenting, kudos, subscribing, etc!
> 
> given my current habits, i'm guessing summer by itself might end up being 3+ chapters, much of which would be about ed and his friends in addition to the hallows stuff :-)
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	11. edward elric and the risk he took was calculated (but man, is he bad at math)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> turns out when you tell your pseudo-adoptive parental figures/friends that you don't technically have an arm, it's a pretty big deal
> 
> like, takes up the majority of a 10k chapter kind of big deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth!
> 
> NOTE: everything said between ed and truth is in amestrian, i just didn't bother to italicize!
> 
> ALSO: i started to use magick when referring to "using magic" as a verb lol
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay safe and stay healthy!

The first meeting of the Muggle-books-book-club (they really need to pick a name, because that’s a mouthful) actually goes a lot better than Ed had thought it would when it had initially been proposed on the train.

He’s the second to arrive, joining Luna at the street corner where she’s flipping through a magazine with purpose.

“Quibbler?” Ed guesses. He still hasn’t gotten his hands on one, but he’s heard plenty more about its reputation since Neville first mentioned it. Primarily from Remus, who despite being calm in most situations, became a bit aggravated when trying to describe his “light disagreement” with the articles written inside. 

“Correct,” she says, looking up. A pair of bedazzled pink sunglasses rests on the tip of her nose.

“Nice glasses,” he comments.

“Spectrespecs! I’ll get you some for the next time, Fullmetal. I think they’ll look rather charming on you,” she replies. 

The mental image of wearing bedazzled pink spectacles at Hogwarts and making the entire student body lose their collective shit makes Ed bite back a grin — not to mention the kind of reaction it’ll inspire in Sirius. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Neville shows up then, followed shortly afterwards by Blaise, who arrives the moment the clock strikes eleven, punctual as ever. The four of them exchange greetings, which is then followed by Luna complimenting the color of everyone’s magical signature as seen through the spectrespecs while they wait on the twins.

Blaise stands perfectly upright, his clothes pressed and neat as if he were still dressed in uniform, and he looks so uncomfortable Ed almost feels bad — socializing in such a casual manner is clearly a new experience to the other boy. Though Ed can technically say he’s in the same boat, he’s never been one for formalities or niceties like Blaise is.

“We’re here!” Fred shouts as he and George race down the street. “We’re on time!”

“You’re late,” Ed says, more to be contrary than to actually give them grief about it.

“Miss us that much?” Fred says.

“No.”

Fred tries to ruffle Ed’s hair and Ed tries to bite his hand for attempting it.

“So, how should we go about getting the books?” Neville pipes up.

“I’ll go buy them,” Ed says, still pushing Fred’s persistent hand away from inching towards his head, “because I can’t trust any of you to walk into a Muggle store and I don’t have the patience to teach you the right etiquette right now.” 

Despite his blunt words, there are actually a couple different reasons Ed doesn’t mind shelling out the money for the future education of his friends, with the main one being that he has more money than is practical for a single person and he doesn’t have to be friends with the twins to know that the Weasleys are not well off; it’s been a well-established yet unaddressed fact, just like everyone knows about Malfoy’s dad pretending to not be a Death Eater in the last war and getting away with it.

(There are whispered secrets about everyone, given how small the British wizarding world can be at times.)

He’s also the only one who understands Muggle currency and he’s not looking forward to being summoned by the Ministry of Magic for breaking the Statute of Secrecy over an innocuous slip-up like paying for books.

Luna ducks her head to hide a knowing smile, but the other boys merely protest and let out insulted whines as Ed walks off with a wave.

“Don’t move!” he yells back before pulling the door open and entering the bookshop.

Luna, Neville, and Blaise start chatting about how they got to this part of Muggle London, with Neville and Blaise eventually discussing their excitement to “finally learn how to apparate”!

The twins, however, have a little conversation of their own.

“He thinks he’s subtle,” George murmurs to Fred, who’s biting back a smile.

“About as subtle as a trainwreck,” Fred says.

“Well, he’s an idiot,” George says fondly. “It’s in his blood or something.”

Ed brings back six copies of a book called _Electricity for Dummies_ and a few other thick volumes tucked away in a paper bag. 

“So, how do we get into Axe-Cident Alley?”

Blaise clears his throat. “The entrance is over there.” He gestures towards an unremarkable and narrow alleyway between two Muggle store fronts.

Neville grins. “Lead the way, Blaise.”

* * * * *

“And here’s yours, Loony.”

“Thank you, Fullmetal.”

They’d followed Blaise through a long, crowded alleyway that featured some scenic view of rubbish bins and monotonous layers of brick, until he’d stopped them in front of a seemingly normal part of the wall. Tapping a specific pattern into the brick with the tip of his wand, it had appeared to Ed that Blaise had pushed the bricks out of place to create an opening.

And now they’re all comfortably seated in the chairs of various size, shape, and color at Ranklebury’s Cafe. Everything here is warmed by ambient magic and the lights inside lean yellow, making the interior seem cozier. It’s a different type of homely than the Hufflepuff common room, looking less cottage and more summer getaway, with patterned tiles decorating the floors and plush furniture and interesting art pieces scattered on the walls.

“So, are either of you ever going to explain the nickname?”

Luna and Ed respond to Fred at the same time.

“Are you referring to Fullmetal?”

“You mean Loony?”

“Both,” he laughs laughs.

“It’d be nice to know the reasoning behind both,” George agrees.

Ed glances at Luna and she gives her permission with a tiny nod. “Technically, I thought Luna’s real name _was_ Loony when we first met, because, well, because that’s the only name anyone else ever used.”

Neville tries to hold back a laugh and ends up snorting. “Why can I so easily imagine that kind of thing happening to you?”

“It’s not like anyone was going to randomly tell me her real name!” Ed points out indignantly. “That was still when people were pretty actively avoiding me!”

“They’re not keen on being your friend now either,” George points out.

“Yeah, you still glare at everyone like you were raised by trolls,” Fred says, “and not the kind that live in mushroom houses and grant wishes — more the kind we used to tell Ron would come eat his toes if he ever slept without socks on.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ed retorts. “Do I have a rude nickname too?”

“Actually, I’ve just heard you referred to as the Hufflepuff, now that I think about it,” Neville answers, tilting his head in thought.

“Me too,” the other four say in unison.

Ed throws his hands up. “How do you know that that’s referring to me? I’m not the only person in Hufflepuff!”

“You’re the only person in Hufflepuff anyone _not_ in Hufflepuff would be talking about,” George points out.

“Thanks, I hate that,” Ed replies, slouching in his seat.

A server comes by, holding a large tray piled high with their food and drinks. He places all of the tea cups on earth-toned coasters that float gently in front of the intended drinker. Ed watches, fascinated and maybe a little disturbed, at the use of everyday magic, especially when the server taps the bottom of his tray with his wand and it sprouts spidery-long legs. The server places the makeshift table in front of them and smiles. 

“Enjoy,” he says before heading back to the counter.

“What about Full Metal then?” Blaise inquires, returning to their original conversation. “It’s an odd choice. Loo—” he stops, unsure, before continuing on “—Loony is understandable, given the circumstances.”

The Gryffindors nod in agreement.

“Yeah, what gives? Full Metal? It’s a weird name!” Fred insists.

“It’s a title,” Luna replies casually and Ed chokes on his tea.

“A title for what?”

“Hm, maybe a job description?”

Ed coughs, still trying to recover from inhaling tea moments earlier. _Why would she know that?_

George crinkles his brow. “What kind of _job_ would that be?”

“I’m not quite sure myself,” she says, apologetic, as if she has any reason to be sorry, “but Fullmetal has given me his permission and I think that by itself is enough good reason to call him by his proper title, don’t you?”

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that logic,” Neville says. “Is it a title though, Ed?”

“Some–, something like that,” he says lamely. “A nickname might be a better description.”

There’s a sudden rush to change the subject amongst themselves; they all seem to pick up on his slight discomfort about the origin of his title, with Luna throwing an apologetic look his way as Neville starts announcing how excited he is to learn about “Muggle magic”. 

He gives her a tiny half-smile and shakes his head. _It’s okay._

They start to read the first chapter of _Electricity for Dummies_ together, everyone reading a page out loud as the others follow along, with Ed jumping in every now and then to explain anything that makes his friends look confused and daunted.

By the end of the chapter, they’ve been sitting in the cafe for a little over two hours, discussing not only their new (very basic) knowledge of electricity, but how their summer plans are currently looking, who likes what kind of tea, and other miscellaneous topics.

It’s nice, Ed thinks, to be able to spend time like this. To make innocent jokes about nothing. To not be constantly thinking of the next step required to achieve his long-term goals.

It’s nice to feel like a kid again.

“Hey, Ginny wanted to join next time if that’s alright with all of you,” George mentions, glancing primarily at Ed, but addressing everyone present.

Blaise purses his lips. “Is your sister… _aware_ … of my presence here?”

“Oh yeah, she doesn’t care about it as long as you aren’t, and I quote, ‘a prick who concerns themselves too much with other people’s lives’. But you’re not, so it’s not an issue, right?” Fred turns to face the Slytherin with an amused look.

“Right,” Blaise says. The corners of his mouth threaten to turn into a smile.

“It’d also be nice to have more people my age,” Luna replies.

“What happened to being ancient and all-knowing?” Ed snorts.

“Ginny is also ancient and all-knowing. More accurately, she’s more of a ‘young’ ancient and all-knowing type of person, I can tell, whereas I’m more of a ‘middle-aged’ ancient and all-knowing person.”

“Then who’s an old, ancient and all-knowing type of person?” Neville asks, bewildered.

“Professor Lupin,” Luna answers. 

“Alright, I want the specifics on that later, Luna, but can we say this is an agreement on Ginny?” Fred interrupts.

“I don’t see why not,” Blaise says, and everyone nods in agreement.

“Then it’s settled,” Luna says brightly. “Same time and place next week?”

“Looking forward to it already,” Neville laughs.

* * * * *

The next day, Ed leaves Grimmauld Place on foot before the sun begins to rise, without leaving a note or telling either Sirius or Remus about his plans for the day.

From past experience with _proper_ alchemy and now magic, Ed is well-practiced in teaching himself new skills and techniques from books alone, even potentially dangerous ones.

He hadn’t been able to practice apparition while on school grounds, but he’d read everything available about the theory and method of what amounts to wizard teleportation and he knows he needs to do it for where he wants to go today.

With that said, Ed has three points of contention with the existing body of research on apparition:

  1. How the fuck does _wanting_ to be somewhere actually take you there?
  2. Apparition isn’t for the irresolute. Seriously, the entire premise of the thing is wishing yourself to the desired location and messing that up leads to splinching. It’s a good thing one of Ed’s only redeeming qualities is his stubborn persistence to get shit done.
  3. They should tell you to be prepared to vomit if you don’t enjoy breaking physical laws or the sensation of having your entire being sucked through a straw and spit out somewhere completely new.



* * * * *

When Ed is done throwing up the contents of his stomach and strong enough to stand up, he’s pretty pleased to see that he’s all in one piece. He did just do something illegal (which doesn’t really count for much in Ed’s eyes of what’s morally right or wrong), but with the company he keeps, there’s no way for the Ministry to find out about this and he’s only doing it because he didn’t have much of a choice.

He’s apparated to the edge of a wooded area and he spots tiny curls of smoke rising from chimneys in the village nearby. Birds are chirping sporadically and he can just barely make out one or two people walking in the streets.

But Ed’s not here for the village.

He heads directly into the woods and eventually, after some searching, the entire purpose of this little adventure appears.

“ _Fuck yeah,_ ” he breathes, which isn’t really anything a person normally would say while taking in the destroyed remains of the house before them.

But this particular shack looks exactly like Ed’s seen it in Truth’s info-dump almost a year ago, the structural bones of the building remain, charred and dark against the sky.

There’s no one around, Muggle or otherwise. Given the location, there can’t be much of a chance that Ed will run into another living thing, because even the birds are quiet here.

It’s unsettling how still everything is. Even in the light of the rising sun, he imagines a dark shadow is cast over the little patch of land that the burned remains occupy.

“ _It’s now or never, Fullmetal._ ”

He walks inside what’s left of the shack, only slightly concerned that the structural integrity had degraded to the point of collapse. Other than the creaking of the floorboards beneath him, nothing moves or looks out of the ordinary — it’s just another burnt home.

_I wonder if Riddle was running from something too._

There’s no way the building burned by accident; Riddle definitely committed arson. But that leaves Ed with a lot of questions. Like why did Riddle bury the ring here, in the remains of an unimportant hovel that he probably burned to the ground himself? It’s not that Ed doesn’t think him capable of senseless violence, because everything Riddle’s done since adopting that stupid moniker _is_ senseless violence.

But why here?

What made this place important to him?

Even with the questions on his mind, this is all too easy in relation to Ed’s typical assignments. He’s skeptical, almost certain that Truth didn’t tell him some vital detail, but everything, down to the rubble, is exactly like he remembers in that implanted memory.

He reaches the floorboards that were formally in front of the tiny fireplace and gets down on his knees, taking off his jacket and setting it to the side. Brushing away the dirt and grime built up from years of neglect, he’s able to find a large crack in between the boards and quickly gets to work prying them off the ground.

The ring rests on the soft earth underneath, a slightly tarnished metal band decorated with a dull square stone.

Again, it’s so easy, it’s suspicious.

There is something ominous about it, as plain as it is — it feels like magic normally does to Ed, something alive and electric about its very existence. But he’s never felt such a clear _threat_ like he does now. The warning radiates off the innocuous piece of jewelry, eliciting shivers down his spine the same way Truth’s toothy grin does. 

He doesn’t want to know if that threat can be made tangible, but he’ll have to take the risk — at least if he uses his right arm and anything bad happens, it’s easier to fix than if he were to lose his left.

Fighting his instincts to cover the ring back up and run, he reaches for it with his automail and prepares for the worst.

His metal fingers curl around the band.

“ _Huh._ ”

Nothing happens. His automail doesn’t tingle or throb and that sinister, living pulse of energy doesn’t register at all, even though Ed can still feel it linger in the air.

_Why don’t you put it on?_

His brow furrows. Why would he put it on?

_Why not? What’s the harm? Aren’t you curious what this does? Why is this so important? Why are you risking your existence on a ring?_

That’s kind of true. He’s been dropped into an alternate reality for this ring (amongst other things), he at least deserves to try it on, doesn’t he?

_Right, you deserve to know the Truth of the matter, don’t you?_

He’s already sliding the ring onto the pointer finger of his automail when he realizes it’s not _him_ that’s thinking it.

“ _FUCK!_ ”

He scrambles to yank it off, but it’s too late. Whatever magic had effectively and easily convinced him to try the ring on in the first place spreads up the steel plates of his automail. Ed watches, helpless, as the metal corrodes rapidly and doesn’t stop until a majority of his metal arm rusts off entirely and the ring clatters to the floor.

Ed’s left standing in the destroyed remains of a shack with three and one-fourth limbs and a cursed ring.

“ _Shit. How am I supposed to explain this one?_ ”

* * * * *

It’s late at night when he creeps back into 12 Grimmauld Place.

For hours, he’d tried a number of spells on his completely destroyed automail to see if he could bring it back, but to no avail. Dismayed, he’d been forced to detach the remains of his upper arm and come back to the house without nothing past the shoulder.

It had been a stroke of good fortune that he’d taken off his jacket, because the empty sleeve provides, at the very least, the illusion of an arm. The ring is tucked away safely in his pocket and he doesn’t make any more attempts to put it on, no matter what the magic tries to whisper to him.

He doesn’t think he’ll be caught like this, considering he and Sirius make it a point to never run into each other late at night, but he’s not looking forward to the next day, when it’ll be significantly harder to hide the lack of automail.

A problem for the Ed of tomorrow. Right now, he just wants to lie down and pass out and not stress about everything that went wrong today.

He’s on his third step up the stairs when a voice stops him.

“Where in Merlin’s name have you been? It’s two o’clock in the morning!”

Sirius is standing in the open doorway of the sitting room, which is situated at an angle where he can see the stairwell, but not straight on. The light of the fireplace casts a weak spotlight on Ed, who’s literal inches from stepping into the shadows leading up to the second floor and disappearing from sight. 

“Nowhere,” Ed calls back. He shifts his body so that the loose sleeve of his jacket is hidden by his torso.

_Shit. Holy shit, this is risky._

“I wasn’t born yesterday,” Sirius scowls. “What kind of mischief have you gotten yourself into?”

Ed scoffs at that. “Well, I did at some point in the last year _solemnly_ swear that I’m up to no good.” He tries to stomp down on the wave of nausea rising inside of him. If Sirius comes even two steps closer, he’ll have a better view of Ed’s arm (or lack of one, in this case). 

Sirius stares and then turns to yell into the sitting room. “Moony! _Moony!_ He’s using Marauder code _against_ me!”

“I’m surprised it hasn’t happened sooner,” Remus says back, the sound slightly muffled. There’s some shuffling and moments later, he’s standing just behind Sirius. “Hello, Ed. We missed you all of today and Sirius, despite his claims of being a ‘cool’ adult, worries.”

“I do not,” Sirius says immediately. “Moony’s the one who was worried.”

“I never said I wasn’t, I’m just pointing out you were too,” Remus says. “Regardless, care to explain where you’ve been?”

“I was just, you know, out. Bookclub.”

Remus raises an eyebrow. “Is that so? I was under the impression that only took place on Thursday’s and you just had one the day before.”

“We had another one today to catch up. Needed more time than we thought, I guess.”

Ed wonders in the back of his mind if this is what it’d be like to be a regular teenager with parents who cared about him — sneaking out and then guiltily sneaking back in, enduring well-meaning questions and answering with white lies for their sake, rather than his own. He shoves the thought away before it has time to take root in his brain. (He won’t let himself imagine that kind of life. Not even as pretend.)

“Catch up on what?”

“Reading,” Ed retorts, “which is probably the only thing books are good for, unless you’re in desperate need of a weapon and you’re stuck in a library.”

“Give it up,” Sirius scowls again. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” Ed lies.

“You are.”

“Am not!”

“Come here for a moment, will you?” Remus interrupts their bickering.

“Uh, I was just going to head upstairs. I’m super tired. Really need some sleep.”

“Come here.” The command leaves no room for argument and Ed grits his teeth before walking towards them with halting footsteps.

“BLOODY HELL!” Sirius shouts when Ed’s made it to the base of the stairwell. He rushes forward and grabs Ed by the shoulders, checking him over frantically. “WHAT’S HAPPENED TO YOUR BLOODY ARM?”

Remus is still calm, but his face pales with worry. “We need to go to St. Mungo’s.”

“MERLIN, DO THEY STILL HAVE A FLOO ENTRANCE? OR WILL WE NEED TO APPARATE? I HAVEN’T APPARATED IN YEARS, FUCK, OH FUCK, WHAT DO WE DO?”

Ed brushes Sirius off with his remaining hand. “Calm down, I’m fine.”

At least Ed can always rely on Remus to be rational under pressure, even as his boyfriend continues to freak the fuck out.

“HOW CAN THIS BE FINE? YOU’RE MISSING AN ARM!”

“Yeah, about that… technically, the arm was already missing.”

“THIS ISN’T THE TIME TO MESS AROUND, ED! YOU HAD AN ARM LAST NIGHT! WHERE THE FUCK DID IT GO!”

Ed cringes upon hearing his own name — Sirius, even after learning it, hadn’t ever bothered to call him that. He normally uses some variation of “hey, you”, “brat”, and “kid”.

_He must be really freaked out._

“Let’s, uh, yeah, you know what? Let’s sit down and I’ll show you, okay? No tricks.”

Sirius ignores Ed’s suggestion and babbles to Remus. “He must be delusional from the blood loss, right? We need to, St. Mungo’s, can we go by Floo? I can’t, I haven’t apparated in so long. We should, no, we have to go now!”

“He’s not bleeding,” Remus says slowly. He looks over Ed’s appearance once more and chews on the inside of his cheek. “He might be telling the truth.”

Sirius shakes his head. “No way, absolutely no way.”

“Stop ignoring me, sit down, and I promise I’ll explain, alright?” Ed says again.

Remus nods awkwardly and grabs Sirius by the back of his shirt and drags him back into the sitting room while Sirius continues to ramble about Ed’s missing arm.

Once they’re both settled down on the sofa, Ed gives them one long look before sighing dejectedly and grabbing his glove between his teeth.

“What, wait, what are you doing?”

At least he got past the shouting. 

Ed glares at Sirius anyway. “I’m showing you.” He pulls off the glove and lets it drop to the floor.

Remus eyes his bare hand curiously, glancing at the fallen glove as well.

Nothing out of the ordinary about his left hand, after all.

Ed licks his lips, trying to settle back into the Fullmetal part of him, the unshakeable persona he takes on to fight as a soldier, before speaking again. “Okay. Okay, so. You need to promise me you’re going to stay calm.”

“What?”

“Just. Can you promise me you’re not going to freak out again before I continue with the explanation?”

The two men share a look, before Remus nods hesitantly for the both of them.

Ed shrugs out of his jacket and exposes his empty shirt sleeve. He hears one of them gasp, but ignores it, using the last of his mustered courage to continue. With practiced ease, he grabs the hem of his shirt and peels it off one-handed, revealing — amongst other things — the remains of his automail port.

Remus, as promised, remains outwardly calm, but Sirius yelps. Both of their eyes are huge and round as they take in the steel of the embedded port and the exposed wires as well as the massive amount of scarring on that particular shoulder, not to mention the other scars littering his torso.

Ed’s suddenly self-conscious of the very obvious stab wound on his left side and the puckered scar left by a bullet just below it.

Wizards wouldn’t know what bullet wounds look like. Right?

“Yeah, so I, uh, didn’t technically have a right arm to begin with. My arm, the one you’ve seen, uh, it was… I guess you could call it a Muggle replacement.” Ed waves in the general direction of his exposed port.

They’re still staring at him like he’s some creature that crawled out of the shadows.

Probably not the best sign.

“How did this even happen? You haven’t explained that at all.”

“Uh… I was out sightseeing and tripped?”

The two men talk over each other upon hearing Ed’s obvious lie.

“Oh sure, and the next time I trip over my own feet, I’ll lose my leg,” Sirius spits out.

“You tripped,” Remus deadpans. He rubs his temples. “This is giving me flashbacks to those detentions.”

“I tripped and it broke!” Ed defends his poor excuse ferociously. “I haven’t had proper maintenance in almost a year and Madame Pomfrey couldn’t do much other than occasionally magick it clean! Muggle inventions aren’t meant to last forever, they require constant care and repair over time.”

“Why didn’t you ever think to mention this to us? Who else knows at Hogwarts? Did Pomona at least know about this?”

“Just Pomfrey,” Ed mutters.

Remus raises his eyebrows. “ _Just_ Poppy? Ed, are you ser–, are you joking? What were you going to do if this had happened during the term?”

“Probably get accused of cutting my own arm off by the rest of the student body, be disgraced in proper wizarding society, and be forced to return to my little foreign town as a drop-out and failure.”

“That isn’t my point, Ed. When you moved in with Sirius _almost a month ago_ , why didn’t you _tell_ us about, about this, about your… arm? We could’ve _done_ something, we, we could’ve helped you figure out your options before this could even happen!”

Remus’ even-keeled composure begins to crack and Sirius is still silently staring at Ed’s exposed torso, eyes wandering over the countless scars on his skin and consistently returning back to focus on the shiny steel of his automail port.

“It’s not something that _needs_ to be shared. It’s _my_ arm and I am perfectly capable of dealing with it on my own!” He’s shouting now and he wishes he could stop, thinks that Sirius and Remus have been nothing but welcoming to and accepting of him while in Grimmauld Place and that they don’t deserve to be treated like this. But his frustration and anger at his hand being forced, at the lack of choices he faced up to this moment, are finally threatening to bubble over in the worst way possible.

“We’re not saying you aren’t capable, we’re saying you’re a _kid_ and you _shouldn’t_ have to deal with it alone!” Remus yells back.

It’s the first time Ed’s ever heard the man raise his voice.

“I’ll be, no, I _am_ fine,” Ed says through clenched teeth. 

Remus jerks back as if burned and Sirius’ face twists into a pained expression.

“You know you said the exact same thing when you were hyperventilating in my classroom, that day we learned about boggarts?” Remus says, struggling to keep his tone even. “You said it again in detention, when you looked dead on your feet and told me you knew I was a werewolf.”

Sirius curls a hand protectively over Remus’.

“And you said it again moments earlier when you showed us what’s happened.”

He sighs, exasperation written into every line of his face.

“You don’t have to be fine, Ed. There are people who’ll be there to catch you when you fall. You have friends who I know care about you immensely. You have professors at Hogwarts who want to see you happy and successful. And you have me and Sirius who already know more about you then you usually let on and have tried, to the best of our ability, to make it clear on multiple different occasions, that we appreciate having you around.”

Sirius talks then, gruff and short in delivery, but the sentiment is completely the opposite. “That means you can, no, I mean, that you _should_ tell us things. Things like when you need help or when something’s difficult. You don’t need to do it alone, kid.” His eyes settle on Ed’s face. “You haven’t let us go it alone, so why do you think we’d let you?”

Ed drops his gaze to the floor, every muscle in his body tense.

_Because I’m afraid._

_Because I don’t want to let people know I’m weak._

_Because —_

“—I shouldn’t have to be anyone else’s burden,” he spits out before wincing. Regret instantly floods his entire body, ten times worse than when he’d talked about Al to Sirius. “Ugh, just… fuck. Forget I said that.”

“No,” Sirius says, “this isn’t like last time. What happened to your family is something you can keep to yourself until you’re ready and that’s fine, I can wait years, need be. But this? This right here is something we have to address now.”

“I don’t want to talk about—”

“You once said you were now your own problem,” Sirius cuts him off. “And I got the feeling that whatever happened in the past made you feel like you had to be an adult even though you’re barely a teenager. That you’re responsible for every single thing that happens, even the things out of your control. And maybe, I’m guessing, that you feel like you have to fight alone, even when everything is overwhelming. I get it, I’ve been in your shoes, I’ve been the person who had to grow up a little faster than everyone else. But you don’t have to fight alone, that’s what you have family for.”

“My family isn’t here,” Ed all but snarls.

“But kid, just look. _This_ ” — he gestures between the three of them — “is family! You and your friends? That’s family. And Hogwarts! That’s family, if you want it to be. You’re not alone, Ed, and we don’t want you to feel like you have to pretend everything’s fine for our sake.”

Ed is reminded of Professor Sprout, of how she’d said Hogwarts could be a home if he gave it a chance. Homes, and families; they usually go hand-in-hand, don’t they?

“You’re one to talk,” Ed lashes out, feeling off-balance. “You wouldn’t ask for help even though you needed it.”

“And I was fucking wrong, wasn’t I? I can admit that, easily. I was fucking wrong. I needed help and was too proud and too afraid to say I needed it and in the end, I. Was. _Wrong_. Why do you think I’m telling you this? You should learn from my mistake and start figuring out how to ask for help instead of carrying your burdens alone.”

“I just, I, fuck, I just can’t. It makes me, like I can’t… it makes me feel like I can’t do anything right.”

“No one can do things right all the time,” Remus says. “People make mistakes, it’s part of human nature.”

Ed shakes his head. His hand unconsciously goes to grip the automail port, which is throbbing painfully now. “It’s not the same. The ways in which I’ve, I’ve fucked up and, and _failed_ people, people who were counting on me! That’s not a mistake, it’s, it’s, god, it’s downright _cruel_.”

Sirius exhales harshly. “You’re being too hard on yourself.”

“I’m not, it’s, that’s the objective truth. My mistakes don’t hurt me, they hurt the people around me and that—” Ed shakes his head again “—is unforgiveable.”

“Ed, you’re just one person, and you’re still a child at that. Ask yourself, do you think any person, especially a child, deserves to feel the weight of the world on their shoulders?”

“That’s not the same—”

“Answer the question. Is it fair, is it right or just in any way to hold a child to the standards to which you’re holding yourself?” Remus stares at him.

“It’s not—”

“Stop avoiding it and answer the question, Ed,” Sirius says sharply.

He knows the answer.

He doesn’t want to say it.

Remus and Sirius wait expectantly, because they know the answer too.

“No,” he says slowly, “no, it’s not fair. Or right. Or just.”

Remus’ expression softens. “And that’s all we’re saying. You’re a child, Ed, even if you don’t think so. You deserve to have support and you’re allowed to make mistakes, because that’s a natural part of growing up.”

Edward Elric doesn’t allow himself to think his life sucks, because even if everyone else thinks so, he might fall apart if he does.

But in the relative safety and comfort of this reality, where children can stay children until they’re ready, maybe Ed can finally stop lying to himself and admit that his life sucks. 

He’s made mistakes and he’s hurt people — Al especially — and he’s kept the pain and exhaustion of it to himself for years.

It’s a burden Ed could never bring himself to share with Al, who didn’t deserve to be saddled with that kind of responsibility at his age.

But Al isn’t here.

No one who knows the Truth is here.

So maybe that means Ed can have the chance to fall apart after all this time, because there are people waiting to help him collect the pieces and build himself back up, people who are far removed from Ed’s past, who can’t be burdened by the knowledge of human transmutation, or by the memories of Ed’s various failures over the years.

It’s what they were trying to communicate all along, whether it’s George checking in on him when he didn’t even like him or Luna telling him he has permission to accept his life separate from his past or Neville making sure he has a place to stay over the summer. 

It’s the way Sirius so casually can say they’re family.

It’s been said, both loudly and discreetly, by all of his friends paying attention to him and waiting for him to ask for what they’ve been offering from the start: their help.

“You’re right,” Ed says, unable to look either man in the eye. “You’re right about all of, about everything. I should’ve said something. And I was wrong to keep hiding this shit from you when I’m living in your house and you’re both just trying to help. I really need to stop being a stubborn bastard about everything.”

“This is your house too,” Sirius corrects him, “and you’re right, you need to stop being a stubborn little bastard.”

“Not little.” Ed gathers up the energy to be annoyed, but it feels out of place to do something so typical during such an unusual conversation.

“Sure, kid. But more importantly, we’ll say it as many times as we need to get it through your thick skull,” Sirius says, earnest and unlike himself. “We want to help you and we want you to feel like you can ask us for it, any time, any place, no strings attached.”

“I’m starting to get that,” Ed says quietly.

“Good,” Remus replies.

Ed smiles weakly and Remus and Sirius do too, crooked and soft and a little bit sad.

After another half hour of not-quite-stilted-but-not-quite-comfortable conversation, Remus urges Ed to get some sleep, saying they’ll talk more once they’ve all gotten decent rest.

Ed doesn’t need to be told twice; he gets into bed without changing and is out like a light in minutes.

* * * * *

He wakes up to blinding whiteness.

It’s so bright, it hurts. 

He’s still reeling from the pseudo-argument he’s had with Sirius and Remus and he feels sick to his stomach just being here, because he knows what comes next.

“Fuck.”

The Gate stands before him, large and imposing and _indifferent_ , like it’s been each and every time he’s been here.

“My, how your manners never improve, little alchemist.”

Truth is seated behind him, facing the Gate. They’ve got Ed’s arm propped up against their non-existent knee and their mouth is stretched wide in that unfriendly grin.

“My manners are fine,” Ed says tiredly. “What do you want?”

“What’s your hurry? We’ve all the time in the world to catch up,” Truth says. 

“I’m not in the mood to entertain you and your god complex, so stop wasting my time and get on with it.” Ed rummages through his pockets and pulls out the ring. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Take it.” 

In a moment of anger, he throws the ring hard, directly at Truth’s head.

They catch it before it can hit them and hold it up for inspection between two fingers.

“I think,” they comment neutrally, “it would do you good to show some decorum around your betters.”

Ed grits his teeth. “I don’t consider you my ‘better’.”

“Your opinion on the matter is irrelevant; it doesn’t change objective truth.”

“What, you going to kill me if I don’t obey?” Ed taunts.

“That’s the least effective means of punishment and the worst threat,” Truth says simply, “because it’s far too easy and not nearly drawn out enough to teach the lesson, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Ed says, teeth still clenched, “because I don’t enjoy other people’s pain.”

“Hm.” Truth tilts their head to the side. “I think you’d rather like it, given the opportunity to appreciate it.”

Faces instantly come to mind: Al, Winry, Granny, Mustang and Hawkeye and their unit. Nina.

New faces pop up too: Neville, Luna, Fred and George, Blaise, Cedric, Sirius, Remus.

Not to mention the number of faces Ed would still fight to protect, even when he barely knows them.

The list of people Truth could use to teach him a lesson has grown since Ed’s last been here and the realization makes his blood run cold.

They grin, as if they can read his mind.

“I wouldn’t,” he says, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat.

“How would you know unless you’ve already experienced it?”

“I just do,” Ed says, feeling defeated. Everything aches and his eyes burn from the unending whiteness that surround them.

He never wins when it comes to Truth and he’d known that from the start. Yet he’d gotten ahead of himself and lost his temper and now who knew what Truth would do to him.

Or to someone he cares about.

He flinches.

Truth gets up and meanders over, taking their time to fully soak in the image of Ed, shoulders drooped and eyes wary. Once close enough, they reach out with Ed’s stolen arm and pat his face lightly, mockingly affectionate.

(Even without the automail, Ed can feel the phantom tingle of his own fingers touching his face.)

“I’ll let you off with a warning this time,” Truth says softly, “but I expect more from you moving forward, _little alchemist_.”

They hold the ring out in the palm of Ed’s hand.

“Take it,” they say. “I’d like you to hold onto the Hallows until you’ve finished everything.”

Ed reluctantly accepts the ring. “What about the Horcrux part of this?”

Truth grins and Ed wishes he hadn’t said anything. He hates that lipless smile, hates the blunt white teeth exposed by it.

“Because I’m such a kind and benevolent benefactor, I’ve actually only brought you here to tell you something you didn’t know and likely won’t be able to find out on your own.” They lean in like they’re about to share their own deep, dark secret. “There are only three, perhaps four, reliable ways to get rid of these pesky little nuisances.”

They hold up three fingers and count them off.

“Basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, and goblin-wrought silver.”

“What’s the fourth?”

The grin grows wider. “There’s the potential to use the Killing Curse, should the Horcrux by _alive_.”

Ed furrows his brow. “What does that mean?”

“I think that’s enough information for now,” Truth replies, self-satisfied. “See how easy this was? To think you were so rude over one short little meeting. Be a good boy and get rid of the Horcruxes in a timely manner, won’t you?”

Ed shouts, frantic at the implications of Truth’s final statement. “Wait, you bastard, what does that mean?”

“Until next time, little alchemist. I’ll be watching.” Truth waggles his own fingers back at him. “I’m _always_ watching.”

He jerks awake with a strangled cry in the back of his throat. He claps a hand over his mouth and gags.

“ _Fuck. Fuck, fuck you, you fucking bastard!_ ”

When the sun rises two hours later, Ed’s still awake, sitting with his back pressed to the headboard and his knees brought up to his face.

His eyes are squeezed shut.

* * * * *

When Sirius and Remus run into Ed in the kitchen the next morning, Sirius splutters and points while Remus sighs and ignores Sirius’ antics to fix himself a cup of coffee.

“Don’t you think you could have mentioned the leg when we were having our lengthy discussion about your arm?” he asks as he stares pointedly at Ed’s bare feet.

Ed also looks down and wiggles his automail toes. “Nah,” Ed grins half-heartedly, “gotta leave _some_ things to the imagination, after all.”

Remus looks unaffected after the events of the night before and Ed is trying to emulate that same relaxed demeanor.

It’s not working so well.

Ed’s starting to think Sirius had a valid point in deflecting any meaningful conversation with jokes.

“You act like we’re torturing you for information,” Remus sighs, “when we’re just trying to learn basic things about you.”

“Maybe you should actually try torture and see if it works any better.”

Ah, another joke to avoid having awkward conversations.

“Merlin, I almost want to owl McGonagall an apology for everything I’ve ever said or done while at Hogwarts,” Sirius grumbles before dropping into a chair at the table. He rests his cheek against the wood, closes his eyes, and extends a hand out in the general direction of Remus, who passes him a fresh mug of coffee with a roll of his eyes and a fond smile.

“Are you kidding me, a written apology? She’d probably set it on fire.”

“Actually, I imagine Minerva would frame it in her office, so that her other difficult cases learn that being a self-declared ‘punk’ is, indeed, a phase.”

“Not a phase, Moony,” Sirius replies. “I’ll be a punk ‘til the day I die. I just now also happened to realize how terribly annoying mouthy little brats who act like they don’t need help are when they’re not me.”

“Who’re you calling little?” Ed snaps, kicking the leg of Sirius’ chair.

He chokes on his mouthful of coffee. “No need to get _short_ with me.”

“You think you’re funny,” Ed scoffs, “I think you’re pathetic.” 

Sirius shrugs and grins upon receiving such a classic Edward Elric response, before taking another long sip from his mug.

“And don’t think I can’t see you smiling, asshole,” Ed scowls at Remus, who’s holding his own cup in front of his mouth in a poor attempt at concealing his amusement.

And just like that, everything feels right again.

Even if they’re all moving forward like things haven’t changed, Ed’s still ruminating on the discussion from the night before, hearing a repeat of Sirius’ and Remus’ words on the matter. It’s like he finally got an answer to his question, about whether saying something would make him feel lonelier than saying nothing and now, he realizes how desperately he needs practice in communicating his more vulnerable feelings to the people who care about him.

How do people do this?

“Hey, which room do you have in the tower?”

Ed hadn’t been paying attention to the conversation. “What tower?”

“Kid, where’ve you been all year? Obviously, the tower where all the dorm rooms are.”

Ed frowns. “My room is the third one on the left of the second hallway.”

Now Sirius frowns. “There aren’t hallways, it’s a _tower_.”

“There _are_ hallways in the Hufflepuff dormitories. There aren’t any towers.”

Sirius laughs. “Very funny, brat. Hurry up and tell me what room you’re in! Maybe you’re in the same one Moony and I were. Or actually, which room is Harry in, now that I think about it?”

Ed blink and then turns to face Remus, who looks absolutely delighted at the realization that Sirius firmly believes Ed is in Gryffindor. 

“I have no idea,” Ed explains slowly, “seeing as I’m in Hufflepuff.”

Sirius huffs. “Not as funny the second time around, but I commend you for the commitment.”

“I,” Ed says, drawing each word out longer than the first time, “am a Hufflepuff.”

“Alright, this isn’t nearly as funny anymore.”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Remus says with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Ed _is_ in Hufflepuff.”

“Not you too! Ergh, this is, this is like the name thing all over again!” Sirius points an accusing finger at Ed, who scowls in protest.

“I _am_ in Hufflepuff!” he says adamantly.

“Yes, Ed is in _Hufflepuff_ ,” Remus agrees, but emphasizes it like he’s lying.

Sirius glances between the pair of them and then throws his hands up in the air.

“It’s too early for this,” he decides. “Neither of you are allowed to talk to me until lunchtime.”

He marches out of the room and Ed just watches him go, dumbfounded.

“I wasn’t even lying that time!”

Remus chuckles. “You aren’t really what the average wizard pictures when they think of a Hufflepuff.”

“Why the hell not? I’d consider myself to be pretty damn loyal when I feel like it,” Ed grouches. “Even helped you two pull your heads out of your asses and I barely knew you at the time.”

“True, but Hufflepuffs have a reputation for being pleasant and patient with others,” Remus responds, matter-of-factly. “You’re rather violent for a Hufflepuff, truth be told.”

“I only punched one person in nine months, how is that violent? That’s maybe even less than normal.”

Remus stifles a laugh. “I really do wonder where you learned your definition for that particular word.”

Ed momentarily thinks of Teacher’s loving and well-placed fists and shudders. 

“Maybe you’ve got a point.”

Remus sips his coffee and Ed knows he thinks he’s won this time.

(He technically did.)

* * * * *

During lunch, when Sirius finally “allows” them to talk to him again, Remus tentatively brings up the matter of replacing Ed’s automail, as if worried it’s too soon to be discussing it.

Ed cherry picks what he’d like to address for now. Hopefully with enough time, he’ll be more comfortable talking about it. “I’ll just get another one made somewhere, and then I think I can do the attaching myself. Basically, good as new. No more problem.” His hand grips his knee tightly as he braces himself for the inevitable questions that’ll follow.

Sirius blinks in surprise. “You’re actually going to get that thing put back on your shoulder?”

Ed snorts. “First of all, it’s my arm, _not_ a thing. Second, seeing as it _is_ my arm, yeah, I think I’ll need to get it back.”

“Where exactly are you planning to get this” — Remus frowns — “thing made? I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Again, not a thing, it’s my arm. And that’s what Madame Pomfrey said too,” Ed grumbles. “It’s not a big deal. I’ll need to find someone who works with metal though.”

It _is_ a much bigger deal than that. Without Winry around (or any automail technician), Ed runs the risk of staying one-armed for the rest of his time here, which means running the risk of fighting Riddle without alchemy.

And that’s not a risk Ed can afford to take. 

He’s also never actually been armless for very long, since he regularly gets repairs back in Amestris, so he’s starting to feel anxious about his potential weakness.

“What, you’re just going to ask a blacksmith to _make_ you an arm?”

“What else can I do?” Ed snaps. “I can’t go back to Hogwarts without it — fuck, who knows what they’ll say about me? Probably something about ritualistic sacrifice or whatever else they think Dark wizards do in the name of summer fun.”

“We could take you to St. Mungo’s,” Remus says gently. “I can imagine it’s far too late to regrow the limb—” Ed violently recoils “—but it’s not too late to arrange for a prosthetic.”

“What kind of prosthetic? Because this _is_ a prosthetic, so what are you suggesting?”

“Like the ones made from magically-grown flesh,” Sirius interjects. “Or like the ones that are magicked on, not fucking _screwed into_ what’s left of _your shoulder._ ”

“No,” Ed says, frowning, “I don’t need to regrow it and I don’t want any magically-made prosthetic. I just need to find a metal-worker.”

“You’re being awfully stubborn about this,” Sirius says, now irritated and confused. “Don’t you want a real arm?”

Ed’s glare turns murderous and defensive all at once. “This _is_ my real arm,” he snaps. “I’m the one who decided to get the fucking thing implanted into my own god-damn shoulder so I’ll be the one to decide whether I need a magical replacement for it or not!” 

_I’m not replacing it with ANYTHING other than automail until I get my **real** fucking arm back_, goes unsaid.

Remus grabs Sirius by the wrist and squeezes, hard. “We understand, Ed. We, I swear, we really do. And we want to help you get your arm back on your terms.” He fixes Sirius with a look and a cautionary tilt of the head.

“Yeah, brat. We just… want to make sure you’re alright, after yesterday,” Sirius says, embarrassed and not quite able to deal with it. “We’re just worried about you.”

“Yesterday you were too cool for worrying,” Ed says, his irritation still there, but slowly ebbing away.

“Will you just be quiet and endure my worrying, you little brat?” Sirius scowls.

Ed can tell exactly what shade of red his own face is by the heat of it alone. “No, I’m going to be loud and unbearable about it, because I’m uncomfortable,” he says, more truthfully than he normally would see fit in this kind of situation.

“...then I suppose it’s back to business as usual,” Remus says wryly. “Good to see your predicament hasn’t changed your _cheery_ disposition.”

“Hey, I’m missing an arm, not my personality. Nothing’s changed.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Sirius mocks in a high-pitched voice.

Ed glowers and kicks the legs of the man’s chair for good measure.

“The little brat has no regard for his own well-being even after admitting he has a problem,” he mutters.

Remus brings a hand absentmindedly up to his face as he ponders something. “Is this why your wand arm is the left one, even though your dominant hand is the right?”

“Yeah. I’ve broken a number of things with my right hand since I don’t have any feeling in it, so I gave up on some things just for my sanity. Like writing.”

Remus nods in understanding. “You realize, this explains quite a lot about the rumors and the — quite frankly — atrocious penmanship.”

“You’ve heard those rumors?” Ed asks, incredulous. 

The werewolf pins Ed with a Look. “ _Everyone_ has heard those rumors.”

“Wait, I haven’t heard these rumors,” Sirius interrupts. He leans towards Remus conspiratorially. “Tell me! Tell me, tell me, tell me, please, tell me, I’m dying to know.”

“Don’t tell him _anything_ ,” Ed warns.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Remus replies, smiling. “I can’t even imagine how Sirius would react to finding out most of Hogwarts thinks of you as some kind of Muggle delinquent.”

Sirius immediately starts laughing, bending over until his forehead almost hits the table.

“This is the best day of my life,” he says between breaths.

Ed groans. “Remus, you bastard!”

* * * * *

“There are several places that I think you could, er, _commission_ another… another arm,” Remus explains.

The three of them are still sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and snacking on a plate of biscuits as they work out how to most efficiently replace Ed’s arm.

“Alright, hit me with ‘em. I’m looking for someone who can do some pretty intricate metal-work, because I can draw out the arm mechanics for them and they’ll just need to follow it.”

“Right,” Sirius says, uncertain, “mechanics. Arm mechanics. I understood that.”

“Great,” Ed grins. “I won’t bore you with the details then.”

Sirius perks up at that and Remus snorts.

“Anyway, given the highly specific nature of your request, I think your best options are getting a consultation directly from the goblins or broaching the subject with Zestrian Smythe at Smythe’s Scintillating Smithery.”

“What’s with the alliteration? Is it some sort of British wizard thing?”

“Wizards want wonky words with which we wield weird wonder,” Sirius replies.

“Y’know, I’m actually impressed with the speed of that response,” Ed comments.

Remus clears his throat. “Actually, there’s a fascinating discussion on the history of magical and powerful words, with many early incantations relying on the use of repetition, whether of sounds or words or symbols, to build, so to speak, upon already existing magical power.”

“What he said,” Sirius says, pointing finger guns at Remus.

The werewolf smiles. “Yes, like I said.”

Ed flicks a pea at each of them. “What did we say about prolonged looks?”

“That they are only allowed in private spaces,” Remus and Sirius recite. They share another amused prolonged look before Ed flicks several more peas at the both of them.

“So, what’re you going to do? Goblins or Smythe?” Sirius presses.

Ed rubs his ungloved hand across his forehead; if there’s one thing that’s been immediately comfortable following their discussion last night, it’s been the fact that Ed can freely wander the house without the gloves or long sleeves or shoes.

The situation isn’t ideal, but Ed has to work with what he’s got available to him. He’s leaning towards working with a wizard, more out of convenience than anything, but suddenly he recalls Truth’s words.

_Goblin-wrought silver._

He sits upright. “Do you think the goblins could make my arm out of silver?”

Remus shrugs. “I don’t see why not. Sirius, you’d know better than me.”

The man in question runs his hand through his hair, still long and untamed after his stint in prison. “I mean, they can if they’re willing to do it at all, which is the main problem. Goblins aren’t very fond of humans, wizard or otherwise, and getting one to agree to make anything for you will probably be an issue.”

“How would I go about convincing one to do this then?” Ed asks.

Sirius shakes his head. “There’s no guarantee. You’d just have to set up a consultation and ask, and they’d be the ones to decide if they’ll take your commission or not.”

“Okay. Okay, yeah. I can do that,” Ed says, nodding. “What could go wrong?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello!
> 
> like always, thank you guys so much for reading and leaving kudos and comments and everything else! :-) i sincerely appreciate everyone giving this story a chance and i promise i am going to get back to everyone eventually — my response time between this update and the last was pretty bad, but i promise, i absolutely will read your comments and get back to you at some point!
> 
> the automail reveal and discussions of repair took up the most of this chapter, just due to importance and necessity (like ed isn't about to show up to book club without his arm) and also because i wanted there to start being more of a blend of ed's world into the hp universe
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	12. edward elric and somehow there's still one hundred and four days of summer vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed meets a goblin, ginny comes to book club, sirius is now a free man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth!
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay healthy and stay safe!

Sirius, due to a distant past overrun with luxury, knows not one, but _four_ different goblin silversmiths who are generally a bit more lenient in crafting goods for wizards, in spite of their being human.

Goblins don’t like humans, after all.

And why would they? Wizards, the only humans they regularly interact with, treat them as inferior and perpetuate negative stereotypes about them, when in reality, goblin culture is just completely different from that of wizards.

Different isn’t inherently better or worse in most scenarios.

Ed knows that first-hand, given how different things are in Amestris from how things are here, but that doesn’t stop Sirius from stressing out about him potentially fucking up during a consultation.

“I’m not kidding, you’re going to have to be really careful about this. Insulting a goblin could be really disastrous for the wizarding world and their social practices aren’t the same as ours, so you might think something’s fine, but it will _not_ be.”

Sirius walks Ed through the general do’s and don’t’s of associating with goblins, much of which is fairly logical: don’t promise them anything you can’t actually give, don’t use magic without asking first, don’t try to badger them into changing the price of something, etc.

Towards the very end, Sirius says, “And _do not_ , I repeat, _do not_ ever mention the sword of Gryffindor. Or reference it. Or even allude to it.”

“Why?” Ed asks, to be annoying more than from actual curiosity.

It works fairly well, because Sirius makes a noise and tenses his hands near his face in a clearly frustrated manner. “You just, they’re going to—, agh!” He messes up his hair. “Look, kid, it’s a sensitive topic for them and one of those social practices I was talking about earlier is related to ownership. And the sword of Gryffindor, er, stuff? Yeah, the stuff. The stuff about it in the past is a big deal for them because of ownership.”

Ed narrows his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Sirius rubs a knuckle between his eyebrows as he screws his eyes shut, muttering to himself about, “Was it Ragnuk the First or was it Ragnuk the Great?”

Remus takes pity on him then, and alleviates him from having to give a half-assed history lesson.

“Ragnuk the First was the King of the Goblins at the time Godric Gryffindor was alive,” he explains.

Sirius immediately brightens, all signs of duress disappearing in an instant as Remus continues. 

“Gryffindor commissioned a sword from Ragnuk, which he had agreed to. However, disputes arose upon Gryffindor’s death, because goblin-made goods generally return to the creator or the creator’s family in goblin society. In wizarding society, we’re typically able to bestow our worldly possessions to whoever we’d like, but to the goblins, this is the equivalent of stealing.”

“It’s also because ownership for them isn’t given up when an object is bought or offered to another person,” Sirius tacks on. “They consider that to be a form of borrowing. It fits into their belief that all things are borrowed and eventually returned, from physical objects to their bodies.”

“Uh… who exactly do they think they _borrowed_ their _bodies_ from?”

Sirius frowns slightly. “I think there’s some kind of translation error for that, because they call it the door or something, but apparently, it likes to smile.”

“Th–, the door can smile?” Ed blinks, startled.

Sirius shrugs. “Like I said, it’s a different culture. They’re pretty secretive about their beliefs, but one thing they do like is equal transactions. The price of a commission should be an exact representation of the commission itself and the price is pretty crazy when they factor in you’re not planning to return it. All pureblood families pay an exorbitant number of yearly fees for goblin-made heirlooms, by the way, it’s part of the agreement, but they always say it’s worth it, since goblin-wrought silver has properties that magic can’t quite imitate.”

“What kinds of properties?” Ed asks.

“Stuff like the shine and the quality of it. I’ve heard from a few people that goblin-wrought silver is so pure it can destroy cursed objects, which, as you probably already know, is a pretty rare quality. Made it more valuable to have a weapon when wizards were still using those in combination with wands.”

Ed is barely listening because he’s preoccupied with the idea of “equal transactions” — it’s all too familiar to be a coincidence. 

A door that smiles.

Truth’s disembodied grin lingering in front of the Gate.

The language is different, but the ideas are the same.

If the goblins know what Ed thinks they do, they might actually get along terrifically.

Either that, or Ed’s about to start a goblin-related conflict in the midst of a budding wizard civil war.

* * * * *

Of the four silversmiths Sirius recommends, Drentier is the only one who “has a sense of humor”, according to the man, so that’s who they (mostly Sirius) agree to visit first.

The three of them are clambering into the Floo, with Sirius chattering away about what he remembers of the goblin.

“She used to say the funniest things with such a sincere expression,” he explains. “She once told my mother that she’d chew off her foot if she ever came back to her workshop.”

“I don’t.” Remus stops himself, pressing his fingertips to his mouth. “Sirius, I don’t think she was joking.”

“Oh. _Oh._ Alright, well, in my defense, it was funny to me. The look on the old cow’s face!” He sighs dreamily. “That was the best thing that could’ve happened to me.”

“You’re doing absolute wonders promoting her work,” Ed deadpans.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sirius grins cockily and Ed kind of wants to push him out of the fireplace and leave him behind.

He doesn’t though, because Sirius is the one holding a fistful of Floo powder and the only one who knows where to go.

Sirius speaks loudly and carefully, “Glulenk Kraftkor.” 

And then the green flames consume them.

* * * * *

Glulenk Kraftkor is one of the only wizard-friendly goblin cities in the United Kingdom — that is to say, it’s the only city wizards have ever been allowed access to. 

Everything has been created with human height in mind, which normally wouldn’t be the case, but this is the central hub of goblin-wizard interactions (because it’s intended to be something of a tourist trap). Doorways are tall enough to accommodate at least three goblins stacked on top of one another, although Remus still has to duck slightly to walk through a number of them.

(Ed is honestly only a foot or so taller than the average goblin, but neither Remus or Sirius point that out.)

What’s most startling to Ed is the obvious use of Muggle technology: all of the lights are clearly run with electricity, there are sleek automobile-like carts rushing about on the streets, spreading the smell of gasoline, and there is a distinct lack of ambient magic brushing against his skin at every turn.

It’s kind of nice.

Maybe he’ll get along with goblins even better than he’d anticipated.

Drentier’s workshop is only one-and-a-quarter block off from the main street of Glulenk, an ideal location to attract customers without overselling her work as “cheap” commodities for tourists, like some of the trinkets they’d seen on the way there.

The inside is filled to the brim with scrap metal and stray tools and what looks like junk to the average human.

“This is not… not what I expected,” Remus says politely, but his meaning is clear: “this place is a shithole I couldn’t dream up in my own imagination”.

“I like it,” Ed grins, taking in the smell of rust and oil. 

“You would,” Remus replies wryly.

“Drentier?” Sirius calls out, peering about the organized chaos of her workshop.

“I am here,” she yells back. “Do not move. Touch nothing! I will come to you.”

True to her word, Drentier appears from seemingly nowhere, arising from the scattered junk as if she were a part of it to begin with. She’s rather tall for a goblin, standing at a solid three feet, four inches and she has an apron on over her clothes. The length of her arms and the entirety of her face is covered with unnameable substances. Ed thinks there’s a good chance that at least 50% of them is dried blood.

“Black,” she says, when her eyes land on Sirius. She frowns. “Is your mother here?”

“She’s dead,” Sirius replies, far too cheerily.

Drentier nods. “She is right where she belongs.”

Sirius laughs brightly, but Remus and Ed exchange mildly alarmed looks. 

( _Sense of humor?_ Remus implies with a quirk of his brow. _It’s Sirius, this shouldn’t be a surprise_ , Ed says back through a scowl.)

“Actually, I’m still here with family,” Sirius says, nudging Ed forward. “I was hoping you’d be able to help him out.”

When she finally turns to glance at him, Ed can physically feel her eyes linger on his lack of arm and his short stature, which only serves to make him irritable.

“Take a picture, why don’t you,” Ed mutters and Sirius smacks him on the back of the head.

“Be polite,” he hisses. “Goblin-wizard relations are in danger!”

“My pride is in danger,” Ed snaps back.

“You are not a Black,” Drentier interrupts them. “You are not…” she trails off, eyeing Ed with extreme suspicion. “You are asking for a consultation, right?”

“Yes,” he says, disgruntled. “I’d like an arm, if that’s not _too_ much to ask.”

Sirius tries to step on his toes but attempts to do so on Ed’s left foot, which results in Ed sticking out his tongue as the man realizes those toes lack the proper nerves to feel anything.

Drentier grunts at the childish display. “Maybe you are a Black after all.”

Remus smiles widely in agreement, while both Sirius and Ed protest indignantly.

She tilts her head in the general direction of the mess. “You,” she says, pointing at Ed, “follow me. You two, wait here. Touch anything and you will join his mother shortly.” She jabs a long finger in Sirius’ direction.

Sirius laughs again and Drentier motions for Ed to walk after her further into the store.

She maneuvers herself with practiced ease, while Ed fumbles once or twice over the uneven terrain of the workshop, his balance thrown off by the absence of his heavy automail and the lack of floor where a floor should be — they’re quite literally walking over discarded parts.

Eventually, they reach a small corner of the shop free of clutter, set up with a small round table flanked by two goblin-sized armchairs.

When Ed sits down, he’s immediately agitated by how _well_ the chair fits him, if only a tiny bit too small.

That’s information he’s going to take to his cursed grave.

“So, you ask me for an arm,” Drentier starts once settled in her own chair, getting right down to business. “Why?”

“Why do I want an arm? Let’s see, hm, why would I want two functioning arms, rather than just one?” Ed asks sarcastically.

He really should learn to bite his tongue. The glower on Drentier’s face makes her dislike of him all too obvious.

“No, why do you want _me_ to make this arm? This is not a hospital.”

“I’m aware,” he says, biting down on his cheek before he says anything too rude. He clenches his teeth and lifts the leg of his trousers. “My arm was like this —” he raps his knuckles against his existing automail “—and you don’t go to the hospital for _this_.”

She’s barely paying attention, leaning forward and gazing at the interlocking plates of his leg with marked interest. “Who made this?”

“A friend,” Ed answers brusquely.

“How is it attached? Magic?”

“The ports screwed into my body, the limb attaches by wire to my nerves.”

“So the wires make it move,” she says, putting a finger to her chin. “Interesting design. A bit morbid in my opinion. Very Muggle, as well.”

Ed _knows_ it’s morbid, it’s screwed into _his_ body. “Do you think you could do the arm or not? I’d be able to at least draw out a diagram for it, if you’re willing.”

Drentier grunts, her lips forming a tight line across her face. “It is not a matter of capability, boy. I can make anything I want. The question is whether I am willing to do so for a human like you.”

“Like me?”

“I have never seen this before,” she states, gesturing towards his leg — Ed’s getting real tired of hearing that. “Where did Black find you?”

“Hogwarts, I guess. Technically?”

She blinks. “He did not drag you out of Azkaban?”

_I forgot about that; his hearing is coming up soon—_

It’s Ed’s turn to be surprised. “Wait, you don’t care that he’s, well, that he’s an escaped convict?”

Drentier smiles and it isn’t exactly pleasant, but it isn’t quite menacing either. Maybe it could be called fond, if you squint and tilt your head. “That boy is stupid, but he is not a murderer. I cannot change the small minds of the Ministry, but I do not have to believe their lies either. Most goblins do not.”

“Guess I made the right decision to come here after all,” Ed says.

“We shall see,” Drentier replies. “I have not agreed to your request, after all.”

He decides to take a gamble.

“But I think you will,” Ed says, leaning forward. 

“And why is that?” the goblin asks, skeptical.

“Because I’m all about equivalent exchange and I hear you’re more or less the same,” he says.

Drentier blinks and then her lips pucker like she’s sucked on a lemon. “I do not know what you are talking about, but I think you should leave now.” She gestures back towards the scattered junk they’d passed to reach this corner earlier.

Like that’s going to stop Ed from pushing the issue. “Actually, I’ve heard you do probably know _something_ about it. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you? You find yourself in front of the Gate of Truth, awaiting judgment only a god can give.”

The moment he says the word “Gate”, her demeanor changes drastically and Ed realizes her dislike is mild in comparison to her fury. 

“You have dared to take knowledge that is not meant for you,” Drentier snarls, her lip pulled back to show her sharp teeth.

“It’s not yours either,” Ed says stubbornly, wholly unafraid. “It’s mine too.”

“Wizards do not understand or believe in the Gate or the laws! They think we make-believe when we have proof.”

“What proof?” Ed asks. There’s really only one answer if this is what he thinks it is.

“It is an old and ancient magic unlike that which is done with your silly little sticks,” Drentier answers, looking fully ready to destroy him with her glare. Or maybe she’s planning to chew off his other foot — it’s hard to tell.

“Let me guess, a magic that uses the flow of natural energy found in all things,” he recites. 

She scowls at him. “You know of the Transformation?”

“Where I’m from, we call it something else, but yeah, I do. If I had my other arm, I could even show you.”

Drentier shakes her head slowly, her anger still apparent, but less explosive. “We speak of different magics then. There is no need for arms or whatnot to perform the Transformation.”

“I don’t think we are. Talking about different things, I mean. This transformation you’re talking about, what would you need to do in order to pull it off?”

Her eyes narrow. “I think you have come to me saying you are looking for one thing, yet you are asking for another. I do not know who you have spoken to that has revealed such information, but I am beginning to think you know nothing about what we are speaking of and are fishing for answers. It is ill-advised to try to steal secrets from goblins, boy. We do not forgive and we do not forget.”

Ed snorts. “I’m not trying to steal anything I don’t already know, I’m just trying to figure out the Truth. Or if you know the Truth, I guess would be more accurate.”

“A stupid question. What kind of truth? There are many that hold true in this world.”

He clings to that phrasing: _this_ world. Does she know of others? Do other goblins?

Here is the dilemma: the last time Ed’s drawn a transmutation circle was the day he tried to bring his mother back to life. He hasn’t needed to ever since and he’s not excited to start, but the look on Drentier’s face says she’s in the midst of making up her mind to call whatever form of law enforcement goblins employ.

“I’ll show you,” he says. “You have any chalk?”

She digs through her apron pockets and procures one grubby stub of chalk, which she places gingerly in Ed’s open palm.

His circles are still perfectly round, in part due to muscle memory taking over as he draws on the table top. The table is made out of wood, meaning he’ll need to adjust the alignment of the runes to account for how breakable the material is. (This is precisely why Ed prefers metal and earth — durable, quicker to change shape, and able to withstand enormous stress from transmutation.)

When he’s done, he presses his hand to the edge of the circle and watches his transmutation come to life. The table bends and warps until it’s no longer a table, but now a wooden statute of Drentier, complete with a scowl and wrinkled brow.

“You really do know the Transformation,” she says simply, as if she weren’t ready to kill him for lying moments earlier.

“What, like it’s hard?” he scoffs in return.

She frowns. “It _is_ hard. Mr. Flamel was the only human who understood what the Gate requires and even he was incapable of performing a proper Transformation.”

“You knew Flamel?”

Ed’s been informed (by the two most recent editions of _Al-Kimiya_ by Anam Mikhail, the only decent source of alchemy research, in his opinion) that Flamel and his wife, Perenelle, died not too long ago, after having destroyed their philosopher’s stone.

“Every goblin knows _of_ Mr. Flamel. He lived a long life and had achieved his own version of the Transformation before asking to be taught.” She shrugs. “We still refused. It is why his bastardized stone could do so little.”

That gets his attention.

“You know about the philosopher’s stone?”

She nods.

“Like how to make one?”

She nods again.

Ed is leaning forward, overeager and unable to sit still. “How do you do it?”

She shakes her head. “It is a price only a monster would pay and it is information you cannot afford. There is nothing you could give me that would be equivalent to such knowledge.”

“Then how the fuck did _you_ learn about it?” he demands, frustration boiling over.

_Am I really this close to the truth, just for it to slip through my fingers?_

“It is something of a burden, passed down from goblin to goblin,” Drentier answers solemnly. “I think the Muggles have a similar concept. Original sin, I believe they call it. It is an accurate description.”

“How the fuck did this start! _Someone_ had to have found out about, about the Truth! The fucking Gate!”

“It is a part of goblin beliefs, a part of _who_ we are and _why_ we are. It is how we learned the Transformation and why we protect these secrets from outsiders who will not understand the demands of the universe. It is too much for them to believe. We have been called a cold and calculating people for centuries because they cannot and will not understand us.”

“Have you ever even seen it?”

“Seen it?”

“The Gate,” Ed says, desperately. “Have you ever seen it?”

“I have not,” she says, quietly, “The Gate is not meant to be seen. Although… I am beginning to understand these injuries.” Her eyes glance over his shoulder and leg. “You paid a price I cannot fathom,” she says, quietly. “Was it worth it?”

“No,” he says, every ounce of frustration and desperation bleeding out of him, leaving him numb and cold. “Not the first time.”

The ensuing silence roars in Ed’s ears, a sensation of being washed over by overwhelmingly loud static drowning out his surroundings.

Alchemy — _his_ kind of alchemy — exists here after all.

Truth and the Gate leave their mark upon every reality, whether the occupants realize it or not.

“I am sorry for your loss,” Drentier says, after a while, “but I can assure you, a stone would not make it any easier.”

Ed’s not sure if she’s referring to his limbs or if she knows the kinds of situations in which a person would visit the Gate in the first place. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because in thousands of years of goblin history, not one goblin considered the exchange worth it,” she replies, matter-of-fact. “And all goblins are raised with the knowledge of the Gate and its consequences.”

“So all of you are capable of alch–, of performing transformations?”

She makes a noise indicating her disagreement. “Potentially, yes. But in reality, many do not care to study and it is not an easy feat. This” — she gestures towards the wooden statue — “is something even I do not fully understand how to do. The average goblin would be more or less the same. We who are capable of transformations typically are limited to the creation of raw materials, which we then manipulate with traditional goblin techniques that have been passed down from parent to child since the beginning.”

It’s true even in Ed’s world that alchemy _can_ be done by anyone, but not everyone actually does alchemy. There’s a certain amount of studying and logic involved that isn’t appealing to the majority of the population. For a rather large amount of people, it is a science that seems unknown and therefore borderline frightening, because they don’t understand it.

The people who do learn how to perform alchemy typically specialize. Based on Drentier’s explanation, it wouldn’t be a leap in logic to assume the goblins had chosen to specialize in refining raw materials, rather than on the manipulation of shape or state.

He’d like to know whether he’s right about that or not, but can’t figure out if it’d be rude.

“Are you going to tell anyone else I know about… you know?” he asks instead.

“If a person were interested, they would have to know about the Transformation and the Gate to begin with,” she replies. “So it would be unlikely.”

“Are there really no other people out there who know about the Gate?”

Drentier shrugs. “It is not a common belief, nor a common magic.”

“But if Flamel already popularized alchemy amongst wizards, why do you all try to keep it a secret still?” Ed asks, furrowing his brow.

She scoffs at the question. “As I have said before, Mr. Flamel was not skilled in Transformations, he was skilled in his own version called alchemy, but it was limited in comparison to the things Transformations could accomplish.” She hesitates. “His ‘elixir’… I am not sure how he accomplished such a thing without seeing the Gate or understanding its consequences, but that is all the more reason I do not wish to know such burdensome things.”

“Is it that bad? The price…”

“You are young but you do not seem foolish. Heed my warning when I say it is truly a price no rational being should be willing to pay.”

“But Flamel did?”

“I am not sure what Mr. Flamel paid,” she repeats. “But something tells me his ways were simple, just like his alchemy.”

“Still,” Ed points out, “you said goblins who use transformations are just sourcing raw materials, right? That’s not too complicated either.”

“Maybe not for you, but for many, it is. It is why it is such a guarded secret. The metal is pure, transformed directly from our own mined earth and smelted with what you would call Fiendfyre. This is what makes our work unique and valuable, there are no other living beings who can find metals as pure as ours and who have learned to command Fiendfyre for their own purposes like we have.” She puffs up her chest. “It is metal unlike anything you will ever see or own again.”

He’s only partially paying attention until the very last sentence and then he’s sitting upright, perfectly attentive. “Wait, does this mean you’re making me an arm?”

* * * * *

Drentier agrees to make the automail with the provided specifications and informs him he can have it in three days.

“It is very fast,” she says, displeasure made quite apparent with her glare alone. “It will cost you extra.”

“How much extra?”

“I will make the arm,” Drentier says, her arms folded and her lips pursed, “but I would like the leg in return.”

“What! I can’t just give you my leg, are you insane?”

She scowls fiercely. “I will not leave you without a leg! You pay for the arm and you give me the leg. In return, I will make both. Arm _and_ leg. Brand new, with the silver, like you asked.”

It’s a tempting offer. He’s not fully sure why she’d like his leg to begin with, but going for an extended period of time without any maintenance could lead to issues.

(Who knows, maybe he’s even grown a bit taller in the last year.)

“Why wouldn’t you want me to just pay for the leg?”

“It is already equivalent. The leg is new information, new technologies I have never seen. I will learn new tricks with the old leg and you will get a new one without paying. It is fair, would you not agree?”

“Fine,” he grumbles. “But I’ll give you the leg when I pick up the arm, okay?”

“It is a deal,” she shows her teeth in what must be a grin (but might be a grimace) and Ed can’t help but do the same.

They shake hands.

* * * * *

Remus insists on contacting Madame Pomfrey and somehow manages to wrangle her into monitoring the replacement of Ed’s limbs, which he begrudgingly admits is the smart thing to do, even if he dislikes the idea of it.

He has absolutely no idea what sort of explanation Remus had given for the man’s involvement in Ed’s life, but the first thing she says when she steps out of the main Floo in Glulenk Kraftkor and sees Ed without an arm, standing next to his werewolf professor, is, “Figures.”

“Madame Pomfrey,” Ed says, with a polite nod.

“Hullo, Poppy. Thank you for coming on such short notice. Mr. Elric here, has, er, landed himself into something of a… a situation, I suppose.”

“That he has, hasn’t he? Although I can’t say I’m surprised, he never did seem the type to sit still.”

Ed scowls. “I’m perfectly capable of hearing you talk about me, seeing as I still have my ears.”

Pomfrey stares at him and Ed feels said ears heat up in embarrassment. 

“Uh, thank you. For coming. Ma’am.”

“Wouldn’t want you to lose your arm more permanently than you already have,” she replies dryly, although Ed doesn’t think she’s upset with him. Hopefully. “Now, where exactly is this procedure taking place?”

If Remus had been unimpressed with Drentier’s workshop, Pomfrey is outright furious at the thought of carrying out a somewhat medical procedure in an admittedly grimy metalworking shop.

“It’s outrageous,” she mutters for the fifth time, glaring at a leaking barrel of oil. “Completely outrageous.”

Fortunately, she keeps her opinions on the cleanliness of the workshop to herself once Drentier is within earshot.

“This,” the goblin says, holding onto a carefully wrapped bundle of cloth, “may be the best work I have ever done.”

She presents to them an immaculate right arm and left leg, crafted with extreme care and attention to detail. The silver gleams and when she demonstrates how the joints work, everything moves exactly like the real thing would.

Ed hates to admit it, but Drentier could give Winry a run for her money.

“You’re replacing the leg too?” Remus asks, eyebrows raised.

Pomfrey glares at him. “A leg was never mentioned _to me._ ”

Ed laughs awkwardly, shrugging. “I guess, uh, it slipped my mind.”

“We will have words, Mr. Elric, and they will _not_ be pleasant.”

Pomfrey’s cleaned up a table for him to lie down on (with reluctant permission from Drentier), and once he’s sitting on top of it, he pokes a finger into the slight gap between his leg and his port, screws his eyes shut, and presses the release.

It’s not painful to remove the automail per se, more uncomfortable than anything.

Putting it back on is a bitch though.

As nice as they are to look at, the arm and the leg still feel awful to connect to his ports, even with Pomfrey weaving her magic to bring the right wires together. There’s the added awkwardness of Ed having to explain what needs to fit into what without being able to see some of the things he’s describing and Remus is lingering in the background with worry lining his face.

The sound that slips out of Ed’s mouth when everything finally pops into place must say it all.

“Are you _quite_ certain there isn’t another option out there for you?” Pomfrey asks, frowning as Ed holds in another grunt of pain.

“Quite,” he wheezes. 

His entire body is tingling. 

He squeezes his fist.

It moves perfectly in sync with his brain.

Ed spends the next few minutes testing the reaction time of his new limbs while Drentier, Pomfrey, and Remus look on.

“Enough,” Drentier says firmly. “I will feel insulted if you continue any longer.”

“Sorry,” Ed says, somewhat sheepishly. “Just haven’t had one made by anyone else before.”

Ideally, Ed would spar with Al in order to make sure everything is working as it should, but Al isn’t here and showing off his fighting skills doesn’t seem like a very good idea in front of present company.

Remus takes Pomfrey outside to wait while Ed pays and hands off his old leg.

“I do not ever wish to see your face again. You ask too many questions,” Drentier sniffs and then shoos him out of her shop after pocketing the sack of Galleons he hands her.

“I get that a lot,” Ed replies, grinning, “but you’re probably going to see me anyway.”

“Leave,” she shouts from her entryway. “Do not return!”

“Yeah, okay. See you later!” He waves happily as he walks out.

Remus sighs and the thought that “Edward Elric is insufferable” is 100% running through his mind. “Must you antagonize the one person capable of helping you in this particular scenario?”

“Remus, it’s like you don’t even _know_ me.”

“It’s Remus now, is it?” Pomfrey interrupts. “When did this happen?”

In all honesty, Ed can’t really pinpoint when Lupin turned into Remus — probably around the time Ed moved into Grimmauld Place and realized calling Sirius’ better half by his last name just seemed rude. And well, despite his temper, Ed has _manners_.

But right now, neither Remus nor Ed can look Pomfrey in the eye and answer her very simple question, because there are a lot of real and metaphorical skeletons in that closet.

“Uh…”

Pomfrey raises a hand and shakes her head. “I don’t need–. No. I don’t _want_ to know. In fact, I heard nothing and I wasn’t even here today. I’ll see you both when the term starts. Do try to stay out of trouble until then.” 

She waits for both of them to offer weak promises before giving them both nods and walking briskly off for the nearest public Floo.

“No nonsense. Straight to the point,” Ed comments. “I like her, but she terrifies me sometimes.”

“Me too,” Remus says. “Although I imagine that’s the point.” 

He turns to face Ed. “Let’s go home.”

* * * * *

They celebrate the reinstatement of his automail with Amestrian food, although Sirius and Remus don’t know what they’re given to eat; they simply dig in and enjoy it, while Ed reminisces upon the scent of hot food covering Granny’s worn wooden table.

Sirius marvels at the craftsmanship of Ed’s new arm and Remus mentions their slip-up in front of Pomfrey — and the three of them end up chatting and drinking and eating late into the night.

When they’ve eaten everything laid out on the table, Sirius and Remus bid Ed a good night and they head off to Sirius’ bedroom, while Ed finishes cleaning up and heads for an empty study on the top-most floor.

He only makes one stop — to his room — to slip the Horcrux into his pants pocket.

Ed hasn’t transmuted anything in so long, he already knows this is going to feel like a rebirth, of sorts.

He counts the minutes, the seconds, that tick by on his pocket watch as he waits, making sure to cast as many silencing charms as he can layer on the walls of the room as he does.

When it’s just shy of two hours later and he’s certain neither Sirius nor Remus are awake to hear it, Ed stands in the center of the cluttered study and presses his palms together.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The crackle and heat of alchemy against his fingertips travels up his arm and he drags his hand over his new automail, manipulating the silver of the plates into a long, sturdy blade.

He places the ring on the floorboards, none too eager to even touch the thing because being near it makes him feel _insane_. Like, wanting to put the ring back on his other, flesh-and-blood hand insane.

“ _Goodbye and good fucking riddance_ ,” he mutters and then he’s pressing the tip of his blade into the metal ring.

_Crack!_

An inhuman screech pierces the silence of the night and Ed yelps, clapping his hands over his ears as he watches, horrified, as the ghost of something twisted and mangled rushes out of the broken metal, reaching for him with half-formed claws.

“I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you!” it screams, moans, as it lashes out at Ed, not a single blow landing on him.

It crashes into Ed, who throws up his arms to brace himself, but finds that the phantom shred of Riddle’s soul has melted out of existence.

His fingers are trembling and he can feel every beat of his heart in his throat and ears.

But it’s done.

He’s done it.

“ _One down, five to go._ ”

* * * * *

Fred is faking loud, obnoxious sobs from behind his hands when he spots Ed stepping through the entrance to Ranklebury’s.

“How could you abandon us in our time of need?” he laments, moving his hands away to fling an arm across his forehead dramatically. “The audacity!”

“You need to douse yourself in calming drought,” Ed responds, settling into an empty armchair.

The others had decided to postpone their second meeting until Ed “recovered” from his sudden “cold”.

“We’ve already tried that when we were younger,” Ginny says, “it actually makes this” — she gestures to all of Fred — “worse, if you can believe it.”

Ed most definitely can believe it. 

“So, what, you know everybody already?” he asks her, looking about the circle as he does.

“Yeah,” she says, “seeing as a third of the group has been related to me since birth, _unfortunately_.”

Fred gasps. “I can’t believe I voluntarily asked if you could join only for you to insult us like this.”

“Yeah, Ginevra, everyone else would be ecstatic to be our sibling,” George says.

“I’m pretty sure you’ve been trying to adopt Ed into the family since Christmas and he’s _never_ been excited by it,” Ginny replies, to which George snorts and says, “Who says we need to adopt for Ed to join the family? Freddie could just — ouch! Merlin, was that necessary?”

George rubs his arm while he glares at Fred, who’s flushing a dark crimson.

“I think it’s time for some reading,” he announces.

“Finally,” Ginny cheers. “I was beginning to think this was like Mum’s knitting circle.” She makes a face. “Too much talking for my liking.”

The youngest Weasley’s presence is something of a blessing and a curse to the still unnamed Muggle-books-book-club. 

Luna is thrilled to have an “ancient and all-knowing” companion in their midst and Neville also finds it easy to talk to the fellow Gryffindor. In a surprising turn of events, or perhaps, in an absolutely _predictable_ turn of events, Blaise and Ginny get along like they’ve been destined for friendship since three lifetimes ago. The twins complain about her hanging around “their” friends, but only ever in good humor, with wide, delighted grins spread across their faces.

Ed thinks Ginny is an excellent combination of cheeky wit and unapologetic self-confidence, which she freely admits did not come to her naturally.

“I had a rough go of it my first year,” she says, completely misunderstanding the difference between “rough” and “outright terrible”. “Didn’t help that _everyone_ knew about it.” She snorts. “People this year were either afraid of me or pitied me and quite frankly, I couldn’t figure out which was more likely to get me to hex them by the end of term.”

It’s another one of those “open secrets” that Ginny Weasley had been possessed by a cursed diary the year before last and had almost died — lucky Harry Potter was around to save the day (as per usual)!

According to Ginny’s very brief description of the thing, the diary had once belonged to a “Tom” whose memories had at first provided a sense of comfort to someone feeling alone, but insidiously began taking control as time went by.

“Felt like it was… alive, I suppose.”

She doesn’t say much more than that and George is quick to segue into another topic without being too obvious about it, but that’s really all the information Ed needs to connect the dots: the diary was most likely a Horcrux.

He’d have to interrogate her to really find out, but he’s not about to re-traumatize a kid who’s been possessed by the thing, even if that kid acts like she’s perfectly fine and well-adjusted after the fact.

Despite the misfortune that had befallen Ginny (and the Golden Trio, technically speaking), Ed can’t help but think of the positive: that’s likely two Horcruxes out of the way (Ginny explained Harry stabbed through the journal with a basilisk fang, leading to another round of questions in Ed’s mind about how much the boy actually knows) and only four more to deal with.

He sets that information aside for a later time.

Right now, he has six wizards in front of him who are in _desperate_ need of a Muggle education and he’d rather eat his own automail than let them go without it.

* * * * *

By the end of their second meeting, all of Ed’s friends have an incredibly basic understanding of electricity and what it can accomplish.

“Can’t believe we used to think dad was off his rocker for liking this stuff,” Fred mentions. “Just think, it’s basically wandless magic!”

“We could achieve so much more,” George says, somewhat longingly.

“I think you’ve achieved _plenty_ ,” Ginny replies. “Mum’s still trying to figure out how you’ve bypassed her trace-tracker, since even Charlie hadn’t been able to do it.”

“Mum knows about that?” Fred asks.

“Mum knows about _everything_ , Fred,” she replies.

“I have to get going,” Blaise says, standing up and brushing off his trousers. “Are we meeting at the same time next week?”

“Careful there, Blaise,” Neville laughs, “people will start to think you’re actually eager to spend time with us.”

Blaise smiles ruefully. “Well, they wouldn’t be incorrect. So, same time and place?”

“You’re alright for a Slytherin,” Ginny remarks, grinning. “Kind of a surprise since you hang around Malfoy.”

“And you’re not bad for a Gryffindor,” Blaise responds. “And Draco is… a bit complicated. Although I suppose he’s changing too.”

George tilts his head thoughtfully. “He _was_ holding back a bit towards the end of the year, now that you mention it. Did he have an encounter with our resident Hufflepuff?” He looks to Ed.

Ed shrugs.

Blaise coughs. “Yes, perhaps something like that happened.”

As a group, they hadn’t really spoken about their Hogwarts houses or their prejudices, mostly because they individually knew how Ed would feel about the whole thing, so now, there’s an uncertainty hanging over them as they try to figure out how to proceed.

Luna is the one to break the silence.

“I think the same time would be alright, Blaise, but would you all care to visit my house? The flowers are blooming and I’d love for you all to visit them.”

Ed snorts. “Visit _them_ , not you?”

“Oh, don’t worry, Fullmetal, I’ll be there too,” she says. “I also live there.”

Fred and Neville laugh at her sincere delivery.

“That sounds nice,” Ginny says. “I’d like to see some flowers.”

“I agree,” Blaise says. “I think a change of scenery could be refreshing.”

“We’re fine wherever,” Fred says and George nods.

“Me too,” Ed adds.

“Sounds like we’re all going to the Lovegood House,” Neville says with a smile.

“Looking forward to having you,” Luna replies.

* * * * *

Remus and Sirius inform Ed that they think it’d be best if he stays home while they go to Sirius’ hearing.

“Dumbledore will be there,” is all Remus has to say for Ed to eagerly agree.

“Fine by me, I’ll see you when you’re a free man.”

“I’m already a free man,” Sirius says. “That was kind of the whole idea behind escaping.”

“I change my mind, I hope they take you right back,” Ed says.

Sirius laughs and Remus just shakes his head while smiling.

“It never ends with you two, does it?” he sighs, but he’s blatantly biting back a smile and his eyes are lit up with something warm and soft.

“Never,” they answer in unison, before glancing at one another and grinning.

Well, grinning until Ed shoves Sirius with a loud “ha!”.

Ed waves goodbye from the Floo, swears to destroy the Ministry single-handedly (all pun intended) if Sirius returns anything less than an innocent man wrongly convicted, and watches the pair leave before getting to work.

The hearing is mostly for show — according to Dumbledore, which means Ed is taking that information with a grain of salt — but that doesn’t mean it isn’t something to celebrate.

The kitchen is the most lived-in part of the house at the moment, because that’s where they spend most of their time, whether they’re actually eating or just enjoying each other’s company (and simultaneously annoying the shit out of one another). 

(It’s also one of the few places Walburga Black doesn’t seem to notice them making noise in.)

Ed lets himself fully focus on baking, trying not to think of anything as the time passes. If he starts thinking too much, he just ends up thinking about goblins and Gates and Horcruxes and Truth and tenses up until he’s more rigid than a corpse and has to force himself to relax.

So, baking.

Measuring out ingredients.

Mixing them together.

Preparing the pans and preheating the ovens.

It’s all routine, all set up for success as long as you follow the recipe.

It’s a tiny amount of stability that he could really use right now.

By the time he’s finished his seventh batch of biscuits, Ed realizes he’s been mindlessly baking for over four hours.

The front door slams open with a bang.

“I’m free!” Sirius shouts. “I AM AN INNOCENT MAN ONCE MORE!”

Ed goes out to greet them. “Did you guys really apparate just so you could have a dramatic entrance? There’s a perfectly functioning Floo, you know.”

Remus walks in on unsteady legs. “Sirius insisted _he_ apparate, I side-alonged and—” he presses a hand over his mouth and visibly gags “— _and_ I realize I indulge too many of his whims.”

“Oh, you’re fine, it wasn’t that bad. We didn’t even get splinched,” Sirius says, waving a hand dismissively. “More importantly, have you heard, kid? I’m an innocent man!”

“Not that innocent,” Ed snorts. “Congratulations, though.”

“A free man, then,” Sirius amends.

“I guess I can’t argue with that,” he sighs.

“Something smells nice,” Remus comments.

Sirius starts walking into the kitchen and lets out a startled yell. “MOONY! ED! Someone’s, some! Someone’s robbed us. Wait! No! Someone’s, reverse-robbed us!”

Ed’s baked goods are spread out on the kitchen table and counter, piles of small, fluffy-looking cakes and colorful biscuits (that are actually frosted for once) littering the majority of the flat surfaces in the room.

“Actually, that was me,” Ed says. He pulls on the end of his braid. “Uh, congratulations, Sirius. I mean it.” He tries to smile a bit, but feels his face get hot and turns it into a scowl. “You shouldn’t have been blamed, but with your luck, I guess it was bound to happen. Uh. ‘S good that everyone knows that now and that the rat bastard got what he deserved.”

Remus is grinning, but Sirius is not.

Instead, the man is gaping at the baked goods and then staring at Ed with shock.

“Oh. Oh, curses.”

“Sorry, is it, uh, do you not like it?” Ed asks, frowning. He never did get around to asking what kinds of sweets the man actually likes.

“No!” Sirius shouts, startling Ed. “I like it so much I’m going to cry and that is decidedly not cool,” he says, eyes watering slightly. He points an accusing finger at Ed. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in a long time. Agh! Do not! Do _not_ do this to me, you! You’re getting soft, brat!” He grins, eyes still a bit watery. “Thanks, kid.”

They eat more sweets than is recommended by any reasonable mediwizard, but none of them care.

It is a day worth celebrating and Ed wants to remember that even when things are shit, good things can still happen too.

* * * * *

The Lovegood’s house is a stone tower on a cliff overlooking the ocean on one side and surrounded by a tall sea of sunflowers on the other.

Ed is actually the first to arrive, meaning he is the first to notice the endless yellow blooms scattered about. Luna is sitting near the edge of the sunflowers, flipping through yet another issue of _The Quibbler_.

“Oh,” he says quietly, looking around.

Luna looks up and smiles brightly. “Fullmetal!”

“Hey, Loony. The flowers really are nice.”

“Do you know what they stand for?”

“Literally? Or figuratively? I don’t know either one, so I guess that doesn’t make a difference”

They’re standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the field now, the salty breeze causing the flowers to bend and sway gently.

“What’s the difference between the literal and the figurative to a wizard,” Luna replies.

Ed swears she’s too old to be thirteen sometimes. “Well, what do they mean?”

“There’s a lot of contention on the meaning of material objects,” Luna explains, “but I’ve personally accepted sunflowers as representations of not only the sun and the warmth it brings, but also as symbols of loyalty and friendship.”

Neither of them look at the bottle cap pinned proudly to the front of Ed’s jacket; the only splash of color in his entire wardrobe.

Ed wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. It’s too big of a feeling to translate into language, something that swells inside his chest when he thinks about it, turning it over and over in his head: warmth, loyalty, friendship.

“Thanks.”

It’s all he can manage.

“I have some books on flower language, Muggle and magical. I’ll lend them to you sometime, Fullmetal,” Luna says and she smiles at him. “Come inside, let’s have some tea while we wait on the others.”

* * * * *

The Muggle Books Book Club goes as well as it usually does, except today they’re sitting and laying on a large picnic blanket right next to the sea, eating biscuits and drinking tea courtesy of Luna, as they finish up their book on electricity.

They, meaning everyone except for Ed, manage to turn the conversation into one about Quidditch, which naturally turns into a conversation about the World Cup that is quickly approaching.

Most of them are planning to go.

Again, that means everyone except for Ed.

“Dad actually got tickets this year and we’re all going,” Fred says excitedly.

“Not to mention he’s letting Ron take Harry and Hermione,” Ginny points out, before turning to Ed. “Are you sure you don’t want to go? We really do have more than enough tickets, what with Dad getting all of these gifted ones from the Ministry.”

“I’m sure,” Ed responds, a little too fast.

“Do you not like Ron?” George asks. “I’m his brother and I’ll admit he was a complete git that one time, but he’s alright if you give him time.”

“No, he’s fine,” Ed lies. “Just don’t like Quidditch.”

“How would you know if you’ve never given it a chance?” Blaise says.

“Yeah,” Neville joins in, “you should go, Ed. You might even like it.”

“Okay, now you’re all ganging up on me and I don’t like that,” Ed says, still in good humor, if not a touch defensively. “I just don’t see the point of organized sports.”

“What kind of boring things did you do growing up then?” Fred asks.

Neville grimaces slightly and Ed appreciates it, but he still answers the question. He thinks he’s okay with it, for the most part — they’re just trying to get to know more about him and he should let them. 

He trusts them.

“Mostly run outside barefoot in rural farmland. Poke things with sticks when I shouldn’t’ve. Pick berries.”

_Oh, and also studying and training to reanimate my dead mother. Casual stuff, you know._

Fred gapes. “You’re a bloody yokel!” He turns to George. “How did we never realize he was a yokel all this time?”

George just shakes his head, unbothered.

“Are you calling me a hick?” Ed demands. “Because you’re absolutely right.”

“What’s a hick?”

“What’s a yokel?” 

Blaise has a look of understanding. “Oh,” he says, polite as ever, “you’re a _peasant_.”

Ginny sprays the tea she’d been sipping from between her fingers and Neville covers his mouth to hide the fact that he’s laughing.

Ed scowls. “And you’re on thin fucking ice.”

By the end of their discussion on the nuances of derogatory language, Ed’s friends have managed to wheedle him into going to the World Cup with the Weasleys, if only to “encourage cross-cultural exchange”, as Blaise so nicely puts it.

“Mostly,” Fred says, “it means we think you need better hobbies.”

“Agreed,” the rest of them laugh.

“You’re all awful,” Ed says, but he’s smiling too.

* * * * *

It takes a decent amount of time to prepare (especially during the period of time Ed only had one arm), but with little else to do stuck inside the house for the duration of summer, Sirius and Ed are ready to start renovating the Black ancestral home within a few short weeks. 

Which is actually not quick enough for either of their tastes, because Walburga Black regularly screams abuse at them from her spot on the wall and Kreacher is still all too eager to let her do so.

They’re both in agreement — the first thing to go is her portrait, even if that means removing the wall she’s stuck to.

With a growing list of supplies in hand, Ed figures the costs of renovation will be a hefty little fortune all on its own.

Luckily, between the two of them, Sirius and Ed have enough funds to live at least seven lavish lifetimes and still leave a substantial number of Galleons behind, which is great, since Sirius also wants to get rid of nearly everything in the house and start anew.

Unfortunately, between the two of them, they don’t have an ounce of knowledge about interior design or architecture. Sirius suggests they go ahead and tear down a few walls, his mother’s wall in particular, but Ed points out that’s likely to cause structural damage and bring the roof down on their heads more than anything.

“How’d you want the place to look?”

“Like the Gryffindor common room, probably,” Sirius says, scratching the back of his neck as he surveys the peeling wallpaper and dark wooden furniture. “It’ll look more like home, you know?”

 _Most likely the only good source of memories he has_ , Ed thinks absentmindedly. 

“You forget I’ve only seen the common room that one time and I was in a bit of a rush,” he says instead. “Describe it for me.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and groans. “Really wish you and Moony would move on from that, it’s not even a _good_ prank.”

Ed scowls and gestures to get on with it.

The man sighs, but complies with Ed’s wishes. “Warm-colored wood. Red when possible. Gold here and there. As you _already_ know.”

Ed ignores him and begins adding to the list of supplies and creating a new list for furniture. “Let’s aim for that, so when we inevitably fail, we’ll at least have something of a theme to work off of.”

“That’s easy enough,” Sirius agrees. “We just need to replace everything.” He raps his knuckles against the black marble of the dining table.

“Right,” Ed says dubiously. “Easy.”

* * * * *

It is not easy to renovate a house, magic or not.

Ed and Sirius do everything themselves — as neither of them really want to lose the (inconsistent) protection of the Fidelius by inviting workers into the house — and end up swearing _at_ the building and sucking on bashed fingers as they literally tear the place apart, piece by piece, with a mix of wand and Muggle tools.

Inwardly, Ed knows he could safely transmute the house with a single clap of his hands and be done with the structural changes they’d agreed on in seconds. But 99% of him rejects the idea viciously; he may trust Sirius a fair amount for someone he hasn’t known very long, but he can’t say he’d trust Sirius to keep his alchemy a secret, because Sirius probably couldn’t keep a secret even if he were dead. 

Ed’s _seriously_ doubting the man’s ability to even keep the automail secret, although that information getting out wouldn’t be the end of the world.

But his alchemy needs to stay under wraps, since demonstrating a “magic” unlike anything the wizarding world has ever seen is going to lead to questions and possibly anger the goblins, who seem really touchy about the secrets of “Transformation” — those are both some of the last things Ed wants to deal with in this alternate reality. He’s already sacrificed his relative anonymity to the Golden Trio and they’ve proven to be a pain in his ass in such a short amount of time.

So, no alchemy for house renovations. 

Unfortunate, but necessary.

With those self-imposed restrictions in place, it would be nice if Remus could help out, as he’s usually the logical person in all of their interactions, but he’s just started preparations for his next year of DADA curriculum and is up to his ears in textbooks and articles doing research.

The biggest problem right now is figuring out a decent method for tackling all of the objects Sirius had once mentioned could be cursed (and there are _a lot_ of them).

Despite the results of his hearing, Sirius has yet to be fitted for a new wand, meaning Ed is the one walking around casting detection charms and marking which objects should be handled with extreme caution on their crude layout of the house while Sirius starts removing furniture from the approved rooms.

It’s in the second-floor library that Ed runs into a bigger problem.

A few of the books don’t read as “safe”, so he’s marking them down when he hears an odd noise.

Something is rattling around in the cabinet of the writing desk — which isn’t showing up as cursed in any of Ed’s detection spells — and he knows that can’t be normal.

“Alohomora,” he says, magicking it unlocked.

He pulls it open, only to stumble back when something grey and shiny spills out of the tiny drawer, shapeless until it’s suddenly solid again, towering over Ed in an all-too familiar form.

“ _Brother. How **could** you?_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again everyone!
> 
> thanks for reading and commenting and leaving kudos and bookmarking, etc.!
> 
> this is the longest i've gone without replying to comments on ao3, BUT i promise i haven't forgotten about them!
> 
> i am going to try to wrap up summer by end of chapter 14 or beginning of chapter 15, so we'll see how that goes :-)
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)! (i'm a bit faster to respond there)


	13. edward elric and the mortifying ordeal of being known (oh yeah, and it's the world cup or whatever)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe ed's a lil tired of keeping everything all hush, hush
> 
> (and maybe i'm running out of ways to write angst lol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy actual friday the thirteenth! whoo - chapter 13 on an actual friday the thirteenth, i'm jazzed!
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> and i hope everyone is staying as safe and as healthy as possible right now!

“ _Al,_ ” Ed breathes. He extends a shaking hand towards his brother. “ _How are you here?_ ”

“ _Brother,_ why _are you here? How could you just leave us?_ ”

Ed involuntarily takes a step back. “ _I–, I didn’t! I’m coming back, I swear, I didn’t, I_ wouldn’t _just leave!_ ” He scowls. “ _How could you think that!_ ”

Al shakes his head, the screech of the helmet against the body of the armor deafening. “ _You weren’t going to come back. I know you weren’t. You’re too busy with_ your new friends _and_ your new family _to be bothered with_ me anymore. _Was I_ always just a burden to you, Brother?”

“No! Wh–, fuck, what! Why, no, _how_ could you think that! Al, what’s wrong with you, this isn’t, you’re not–, this isn’t like you!”

“This isn’t like you either,” Al answers.

“Nothing’s changed! I’m still — I’m still your brother!”

“Are you though? My brother wouldn’t be wasting time like this. The _Fullmetal Alchemist_ wouldn’t bother with any of this wizard _nonsense_ or play by any of their rules. He’d rush into things and be done with it already.”

“Don’t call me that,” Ed says, his voice wavering. “Not you.”

“You’ve forgotten, Brother,” Al says, ignoring his words.

“I’m just, it’s, this is for Nina,” Ed tries instead.

He’s somehow never noticed how menacing Al can be when he’s seven feet of hulking metal armor or how ominous the faint light of his eyes are, hidden in the shadow of the helmet.

“That’s a bold lie, Brother. This” — he gestures around them —” is all for _you._ ”

A wave of anger crashes into Ed, reminding him of every guilty moment where he thought of what more he could have done, of every time he thought of Al waiting for him while he was stuck, frustrated, and alone.

“This isn’t my fucking choice and this isn’t what I fucking wanted either! H–, how could I, shit! How could I fucking forget anything, when I haven’t even gotten our bodies back!”

Al takes a step towards him and he takes a step back, stumbling over an uneven floorboard and finding himself with his ass on the floor, staring up at the silhouette of his brother before him.

“Listen,” Al says, towering over Ed where he lays. “Can you say you haven’t forgotten when you’re not even speaking Amestrian anymore?” 

Ed opens his mouth to argue when he realizes they’ve been speaking English far longer than they’d been speaking Amestrian.

_Al doesn’t speak English._

“You really have moved on,” the boggart adds, cutting off any excuse Ed has to offer. “You’ve forgotten what you’ve done to _me_ , you’ve forgotten what you’ve done to _yourself_ , and you’ve forgotten everything that’s important to us.”

_It’s not fucking real, Fullmetal._

He tries to recover his grip on his wand. 

“You’re not Al,” he says, mustering up his courage.

“Does it matter? You’re happy to be rid of him regardless,” the armor says matter-of-fact. “You’re all too happy to _forget_.”

_This isn’t real._

“I haven’t forgotten,” Ed spits out, “I’d never do that to Al.”

“Oh, you’ve already done enough to _Al_ , don’t you think?” The armor leans down, as if to grab Ed by the neck. “You’ve ruined his life once already, what makes you think he’ll let you do it again?”

A blur crashes into the armor.

Ed watches, momentarily stunned, as Sirius wrestles it to the ground before it shifts, shiny steel melting into grey flesh as he witnesses the boggart turn into a sickly pale figure.

“Padfoot…,” it says, clutching at the front of Sirius’ shirt, “where’s Harry?”

“Oh, fuck!”

Sirius scrambles off of the presumably late James Potter as if burned. The boggart reaches out for him, panicked cries growing louder.

“Where’s Harry? What’s happened to him?” it asks desperately. “Sirius, why didn’t you _do_ something?!”

Sirius staggers back. “I’m sorry, James. I, I didn’t, I tried to—”

“It wasn’t enough!” The boggart shouts. “You should’ve tried _harder_!”

Ed curls his fingers against his wand.

 _You can do this, you can_ do _this._

The boggart turns to face him, flickering momentarily into an image of Al.

_I can’t do this._

And suddenly all Ed can see is the horrified, despondent look in Sirius’ eyes, reminiscent of the way he’d looked when he used to talk about Azkaban and dementors.

_Do it for Sirius._

“Riddikulus,” Ed stammers.

The boggart is morphing, but not as a result of Ed’s spell.

It begins to combine James Potter’s disheveled hair and gaping mouth with Al’s glowing red eyes and silvery sheen.

“Fucking hell, _riddikulus_!” Ed shouts, desperately thinking of anything but Al.

The ungodly union of Sirius and Ed’s fears suddenly dons a pair of roller skates. Unable to keep its balance, the boggart slips and explodes into a shower of confetti, startling a disbelieving laugh out of the pair.

Ed can only imagine what kind of face Sirius is making when he utters, “What the bloody hell just happened.”

* * * * *

Ed and Sirius are sitting at the kitchen table which is set with cups full of tea that’s been steeped for far too long.

“So, uh…, I, er, I guess…,” Sirius trails off for the seventh time.

“Let’s just not talk about it,” Ed says, sitting rigidly in his seat.

This is somehow far worse than the kids at Hogwarts getting an eyeful of a bloody mangled heap sitting in the middle of a human transmutation circle — at least that conversation had _stayed in Amestrian._

This, however, did not.

And there’s no way Sirius didn’t hear the very end of the conversation, if not more.

“That seems to be your go-to coping method, brat. And it’s not very healthy.” The man actually scowls at him, like Ed should _care_ about how unhealthy his coping mechanisms actually are.

(And Sirius is one to talk.)

It speaks volumes that he misses the way the military used to treat him — callously, like he’s nothing but a number on another piece of paperwork to them.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the point now, is it?”

“Maybe being alive is enough,” Ed grumbles.

He reaches out to drink his tea and stops short when he notices how badly his hand is still trembling. If he grabs the tea cup like this, it’ll rattle when he lifts it off the saucer and Sirius will surely hear it.

He puts his hand back down on his lap.

“There’s more to living than existing,” Sirius says at last.

He already knows that, of course. That’s why he became a State Alchemist, right? If he had already resigned himself to an _existence_ rather than a _life_ when everything went to shit years ago, he wouldn’t even be here to start with — he’d be sitting in a wheelchair at Granny’s house.

And Al would be stuck in that armor permanently.

“I’m living just fine.”

Sirius lets out a groan. “Must talking to you be like pulling teeth _each_ and _every_ time we do this?”

“Yes,” Ed says stubbornly. “Or we could just not talk about this like I already suggested.”

“I thought we were past all this ‘bottling up my feelings and trying to deal with my problems alone’ stuff.”

“Apparently not.”

The conversation dies and even Sirius, for all he loves to talk, seems to be at a loss for words.

Ed debates the likelihood of Sirius pursuing him if he leaves the kitchen when the man in question starts up again.

“Moony’s going to ask what happened, you realize?”

“Remus, he’s, uh, already seen my boggart.” Ed shrugs, as if the thought doesn’t bother him in the slightest. “Defense.”

“...and it looked like that then?”

“No,” Ed replies in a tight voice. “No, it didn’t.”

They both fall silent again.

Ed figures if it’s a matter of waiting Sirius out, the man has pretty good odds of beating him, seeing as he did spend over a decade waiting for a chance at revenge and Ed’s only been alive for a few years longer than that. 

Wow, he’s been through a lot at fifteen.

Or is he sixteen now?

Technically, his actual date of birth has passed and he should be a year older, but it’s not like Truth took the time of year into consideration when they dropped him into a different reality. It must’ve been nearing his sixteenth birthday in his original reality before he spent almost another year in this one.

How old would he be when he returns?

More importantly, how old will he _feel_ when he returns?

_If I return._

He shakes the thought from his head.

 _When. When I return,_ he thinks firmly.

“Wasn’t… is–, isn’t your brother called Al?”

“Yes,” Ed replies, ignoring the switch in tense and deliberately not using it either. He can’t bring himself to talk about Al like he’s in the past, when that’s not entirely true. It’d be too much like proving the boggart right.

Sirius is shaking his leg under the table, jostling it ever so slightly. “And, er… did he–, does… does _what happened_ have anything to do with the… the armor?”

_“What happened” has everything to do with the armor._

Ed doesn’t respond, because it doesn’t matter — he’s certain Sirius already knows that answer for himself and is asking more to politely, but firmly tread into the depths of Ed’s traumatic past rather than plunging in.

“I don’t want to talk about Al,” he says bluntly. “Especially not him.”

“The armor?” Sirius asks hesitantly.

There is no explanation for the armor that wouldn’t appall Sirius. In fact, there is no explanation for the armor that wouldn’t appall any sane person in any reality.

“I don’t want to talk about that either.”

“I get it,” Sirius nods, closing his eyes as he slouches in his chair. “I’m going to have nightmares for months.”

 _Tell me about it,_ Ed wants to say. 

He doesn’t.

He doesn’t really want to think about it either, but he can’t help but remember the boggart’s words once more.

“He looked like that, that night.”

Ed turns to look. “Who?”

“Prongs,” Sirius says, eyes still closed. “That night, he looked like that. Same boring sweater, same messy hair, same cr—” his voice breaks slightly “—cracked glasses.” He clenches his hand into a fist. “I think if he’d been alive when I finally got there, that’s what he’d have said to me.”

He takes a few deep breaths, before continuing. “I dream sometimes, or maybe it’s better to call it a nightmare… regardless, I see him sometimes when I sleep. And I imagine that if I’d even been a minute faster, I’d have been there in time to at least _do something_ , instead of showing up late and—”

He stops talking abruptly.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” he mumbles, as if suddenly registering he’s unloading all of his crap onto a teenager.

“It’s too late for that now,” Ed points out.

Perhaps it’s human nature to think the worst of yourself when reflecting on every blunder you could even slightly be blamed for. 

Sirius’ line of thinking is depressingly similar to Ed’s own train of thought following each of his failures, particularly his biggest one, where he not only let down his brother and killed his mother, but also disappointed Granny and scared Winry in one go.

He sure knows how to make a mess of things. 

Which leads Ed into ruminating on the boggart’s choice words _again._

It’s not like he could ever forget Al or anyone else back home, but the only reason he’s been able to make friends here at all is because he didn’t tell anyone he destroyed his brother’s existence single-handedly. 

Isn’t it some sort of lie that he hasn’t told _anyone_ in this reality how much of an actual garbage human being he is?

They all seem to like him for some reason or other and maybe being surrounded by people who don’t know a thing about him has convinced him he’s somehow a good person.

But would they still think that if they knew the truth?

Is keeping the truth from them even worse than lying?

The clock is ticking loudly from the foyer. 

He takes a deep breath. 

“I told you that one time, my mistakes don’t hurt me as much as they hurt the people around me,” he says slowly.

Sirius makes a sound to indicate he’s listening.

“You already know about Al. My brother, he’s the best, literally the best god-damn person I’ve ever known. When we were younger, Mom died and my fath–, no, that _bastard_ walked out on us even before then. So, Al is all I have. _Was_ all I have.” 

He grimaces at the correction.

 _I’m not letting myself forget. Al is still_ here _, just not… here._

“We did everything together,” Ed continues. “Everything, I swear. Him not being here, it’s, it’s my fault. My arm and my leg — where I’m from, it wasn’t a huge secret, because the, uh, accident I lost them in was so big and the town was so small, everyone knew about it and it was completely my fault. Mine. I’m the one who told Al we should do the–, do what we did, and I’m the one who set everything up and started it. And everyone knew that in that same, that same accident… I ruined my brother’s life.”

At those words, Sirius opens his eyes and starts to protest. “I’m sure it’s not like that—”

“Don’t,” Ed cuts him off harshly. He scowls. “I know you must’ve heard something, during the, the conversation. With the boggart. And it’s not like people didn’t know back home and say all the same things you’re about to say to me right now, all while thinking it was my fault and blaming me behind my back. I’m not an idiot, I know what I’ve done.” He clenches his automail into a tight fist. “And Al knows it too.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Sirius tries again.

“And you aren’t?”

That shuts him up for a moment. 

“Life can be fucking awful,” Ed adds, “even when you tried to do everything that you possibly could have done. Because god is just a giant fucking asshole who’s waiting to laugh at you when you fuck shit up.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “You actually buy into that Muggle myth?”

If Truth were a myth, Ed’s life is an urban legend. 

“Wish I could say otherwise, but I can’t.”

It’s not so much that Ed’s “bought” into the idea of a higher power as it is that he tried to play by his own rules and came out on the losing side with only half his limbs and his brother’s soul.

Maybe he should really count himself lucky that Truth is enough of a sadist to let him live at all.

“I’m kind of surprised you told me anything,” Sirius mentions.

It’s a valid point. Ed’s been aggressively tight-lipped about most personal information and he’s certain Sirius has heard stories about his detentions with Remus throughout summer.

“It’s what the boggart said that changed my mind,” Ed admits reluctantly. “I think me not wanting to talk about myself or what happened… it was part of me trying to be selfish. Like always. Or thinking I’m doing the right thing when I’m really just thinking about myself.”

“I find that incredibly hard to believe.”

“You don’t have to believe it for it to be true,” Ed shrugs. “And I’m tired of pretending I’m keeping quiet for anyone’s sake but my own. Tired of doing a lot of things honestly.”

Like pretending his life hasn’t been hard before all of this wizard crap blew up in his face less than a year ago. 

Or acting like he hasn’t royally fucked up at least once in the brief amount of time he’s been alive.

They say the Truth will out.

The clock keeps ticking.

_Tick, tock, tick, tock…_

But it looks like Ed’s run out of time.

“I don’t think—”

“‘You’ve already done enough to Al, don’t you think?’” Ed repeats. 

Sirius winces.

Ed wets his lips. “The boggart was right. I’ve already done enough to Al and I get scared thinking he would hate me for it. Resent me for my mistake, like he definitely should. Not even an actual mistake, it was willful ignorance on my part.”

_Teacher told us not to and I’m the one who didn’t listen._

_I’m the one who told Al it would be fine._

“Sometimes trying to, to live, when he’s not around, it feels like I’m letting myself forget what I’ve done or that I’m fooling myself into thinking I could maybe deserve something normal for once, when that’s not a possibility for Al. Because of me.”

Finally admitting the Truth is like a weight off his shoulders, if only momentarily to readjust his coat. 

“Me not telling anyone about my biggest fuck up is just me trying to protect myself from losing things I shouldn’t’ve had in the first place.”

“Were you trying to kill him?”

It makes sense that that’s what Sirius assumes had happened.

It may as well be the truth. 

Ed shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter though, does it? Right now, right here, the result is the same. Al can’t live the life he deserves, and I’m living a life I don’t deserve at all.”

He braces himself for the inevitable rejection, for any indication that Sirius finally understands the kind of person he is and kicks him out once and for all.

What he’s not expecting is for the man to launch himself from his chair onto Ed, knocking him out of his seat and wrapping him in the most ferocious hug Ed’s ever received.

“Wha—”

“Even if it _was_ your fault, you get to be happy,” Sirius says. “Did you hear me, brat? You get to be happy too.”

It’s permission Ed didn’t realize he needed.

He knows that he shouldn’t need it, that Sirius or any other person saying it to him doesn’t change anything. 

But it somehow does changes _everything_.

Just knowing Sirius has seen what he has and learned what he did and _still_ thinks Ed is allowed any amount of happiness… it makes everything so much better than it could’ve been.

It makes Ed think his other friends might be so accepting.

How is it that the most complicated problems end up having incredibly simple solutions?

“As many times as you need to hear it, I’ll say it. You get to be happy too.”

When Ed finally pulls out of the hug, Sirius musses up his hair ferociously, until his braid is coming undone.

“Hey, watch it!” 

He’s trying to comb his fingers through his hair while Sirius smiles fondly.

“I’m glad you’re starting to let your hair down,” he says.

“Not by choice,” Ed says, grouchy.

“Not your _real_ hair, brat. Just… I’m happy you’re starting to open up.”

He is significantly less uptight and intense after months of living like a regular teenager.

(Well, mostly regular, given the circumstances.)

“Still can’t believe you’ve actually told me _anything_ about yourself,” Sirius teases, treating Ed like nothing’s changed at all. “You’ve been all ‘mysterious origins’ on me since you first kidnapped me.”

Ed snorts. “At your age, it was hardly a kidnapping.”

“Not the point, brat, but also, don’t be rude to your elders.”

“Which is it, are you a kid or are you an elder?”

The man smiles wryly. “I’m Sirius.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m sure,” he laughs while tugging on Ed's now neat and tidy braid. “Just like you hate Moony, and your friends, and using magic, right?”

“Right,” Ed says, fighting the tiniest of smiles. “Just like that.”

* * * * *

Book club, despite being something Ed normally looks forward to, feels like a chore following so soon after the boggart. Not because he doesn’t like his friends or teaching them about Muggle inventions, but because they all too easily read his emotions even when he wishes they wouldn’t, or that they’d at least be rude enough to not care about.

Damn their consideration.

There’s something about being treated with kindness that feels inherently wrong to a person like Ed, whose life hasn’t been kind to him — many of the people in it haven’t been either. Receiving looks of worry and being handled with care makes Ed feel oddly vulnerable and unsettled, like he’s anticipating the sucker punch that’s surely to come when his guard is down.

It’s why he has a hard time talking about anything in the first place, even if he’s convinced himself he’s mostly over the boggart encounter.

Still, it’s unrealistic to think his friends, who are largely normal teenagers besides their access to magic, would think to torture him with mind games.

But he also can’t stop the intrusive thought from slipping in when he sees their concern.

Sirius hadn’t acted like Ed needed kid gloves after the admission of his guilt, nor did he act like anything had changed between the two of them, which had helped immensely in Ed letting go of the boggart’s words.

But it’s not like Sirius could so easily fix _everything_ with such a simple solution.

Ed hasn’t been sleeping well and he catches himself lingering on the idea that Al could never forgive him after all.

His friends probably wouldn’t either.

Would they?

“You alright, Ed? You’re looking a bit pale,” Neville comments.

“Fine,” Ed says, as neutrally as he can. “Didn’t sleep a lot, that’s probably why. Maybe it’s the weather. Yeah, maybe the weather. Uh, did you guys finish the next few chapters?”

They let him change the subject, because none of them ever _really_ press the issue and certainly not in front of other people — that’s their kindness again, helping him horde his dirty laundry out of sight.

Ginny, who’s known him the least amount of time, pretends like nothing is out of the ordinary, which acts as something of a buffer between the floodgates of Ed’s overthinking and the well-meaning concern of his friends.

“I didn’t finish anything,” she says, “since I figured we’d be talking about it anyhow.”

Ed grumbles. “What’s the point of a book club without the reading?”

“Some things are just meant to be fun, instead of just _work_.” She crinkles her nose.

“If you’re doing things right, you shouldn’t need to work at all.”

“Blaise gets it!”

The conversation flows more easily then, with Ginny adding excessive social lubricant to gloss over the fact that Ed’s dark circles are the worst they’ve been in months and that the rest of the club keeps lingering over them as if they’re moments away from asking about it.

He honestly considers just talking about it so they can learn the truth about him and move on with their lives. Sirius might not have changed his mind after vaguely learning about his childhood, but that doesn’t mean other people wouldn’t.

Sirius hasn’t really had a typical upbringing either, now that Ed thinks about it. That probably played a role in his easy acceptance of Ed’s fucked up past.

He really should just admit his guilt and cut his losses now.

But he vividly recalls all the times in the past year where he’s felt younger than he ever has and freer than he’s ever been and he can’t bring himself to do it.

The boggart’s clearly done its job; he’s never felt so afraid and indecisive in his life, not even when he’d woken up to find himself missing a leg and a brother.

_Is this the kind of crap normal people are worrying about?_

When the book club is over and his friends reluctantly bid him farewell, Luna approaches him with a small smile.

“Do you have time for a chat?”

“‘Course, Loony. You need something?”

She shakes her head. “Not particularly. Walk with me though?”

He doesn’t bother answering her, just holds out his arm and lets Luna lead him towards a public floo station.

It’s only once they’re stepping out of the Lovegood’s fireplace that she starts talking again.

“You know, you’ve never did ask about Fullmetal.”

That throws him for a loop.

“Why would I ask about my own name?”

“Why didn’t you ever ask how I knew about it?”

“I did ask—” he stops short.

He never asked.

_Why haven’t I asked?_

It’s been months since she’s first called him Fullmetal and somehow, some way, he’d managed to forget he hadn’t been the one to tell her about it in the first place.

“Wh–, wait. How could you possibly…” 

He thinks it might be the first time she’s ever refused to meet his eyes.

“Fullmetal, have you ever heard of legilimency?”

All this time, he’d been worried about the people who might ask questions, but he’d forgotten there’d been one who’d somehow known the answers.

“Fuck. _Fuck._ No, no _fucking_ way.” 

_She knows._

_She already knows._

In this moment, his world might be ending.

_This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper._

* * * * *

Ed has been in a lot of fights over the last few years where he’s been at a significant disadvantage.

Early on, it had always been because of his age and size and lack of experience and stubborn attitude.

Nowadays, it’s just his stubborn attitude that keeps him fighting when he should probably run for it.

This is the singular instance Ed’s first instinct is to flee rather than fight.

“Have you heard of legilimency?” Luna repeats when she has yet to receive an answer. 

He hesitates and tries to swallow to alieve his dry throat. “I have… why?”

She busies herself with preparing tea. “I told you,” she says, opening a cupboard as she does, “you think too loud.”

It’s true that she’d said that the first time, but he hadn’t thought to take it literally.

Everything is simultaneously falling apart and coming together. Missing pieces are starting to fill in, but this isn’t how he wanted to have this conversation — he didn’t ever think anyone would get to know so much without his consent.

His fear morphs into anger, a hot rage that he can feel as pressure at the base of his throat when he tries to speak.

“How much have you seen?” he demands, emotion leaking into his voice.

“Not much,” she replies calmly. She pulls out two cups and sets a full kettle atop the stove.

“That’s–, that’s too vague, and, and I need answers, Luna. Real answers. You can’t just–, shit! You can’t just look into my head whenever you want!”

“I don’t do it because I want to see anything, Ed. I don’t really have much of a say in the matter.”

He tries to swallow again. “What do you mean?”

“Some people are much better at legilimency than others. For some, it even comes naturally.” Her expression is carefully neutral. “I understand your worry, but I can pinky swear that I really haven’t seen anything concrete. I never look more than I naturally do.”

He instantly deflates and the guilt of yelling moments prior fully settles in, because it feels awful to be angry with Luna, especially if she’s not even doing it intentionally. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, tensely. “I just, I don’t… no, I _can’t_ stand the idea of someone looking in my head without my permission.”

“I know,” she says, “I’d feel the same way. I haven’t bothered to mention it to people anymore because I’ve learned it’s a fast way to lose friends.” She laughs at herself. “Maybe I should say ‘a faster way’.”

“You shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

“Why not? I think it’s a splendid idea to laugh at yourself from time to time. Makes you take things less seriously.”

If Ed were like the average teenager, he’d be inclined to agree with her. But if anything, Ed is coming from circumstances more like that of Harry Potter, and he can imagine just how intense the other boy must be in his day-to-day life.

He changes the subject — there’s no good way to explain a difference of opinion that arises from their incompatible circumstances. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

She shrugs. “I thought you’d ask sooner.”

It’s a fair point. He’d gotten too comfortable perhaps, and let some things go as being quirks of a young teenage witch rather than questioning it with the skepticism of a State Alchemist.

“So, how, how much _do_ you know?”

She hums thoughtfully. “I know Fullmetal is a title you’ve been given for a job of some sort and that you call yourself that when your thoughts are particularly loud. I know you had a variety of hardships growing up, although I can’t describe what they are. And I know wherever you’re from isn’t anywhere around here.” 

Luna takes the time to look over his face and fully take in his dark circles and abnormally pale skin.

“But most of the time, I just get a sense of how people around me are feeling, and I know something particularly awful must have happened recently because you’re in a rather concerning mood.” 

“Concerning how? There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

“You’re spiraling, Ed, and I’d rather have this conversation than watch you convince yourself you aren’t allowed friends or whatever else you’ve managed to come up with,” she says.

“I’m fine,” he says dismissively. “See?” He grins weakly. “Fine.”

“You don’t need to lie to me. It’s not good to keep all these things locked up in your head or your heart… it’ll attract the Rakke.”

“Rakke?”

“They feed on bad thoughts and make them worse,” she explains. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” he says again.

_How many times do I have to lie for it to be convincing?_

“Is it about your family?”

Right, she’d known about that too somewhat, back when she’d been helping him sort out his own feelings that first time around.

“How’d you know I lost people, uh, during school, when we, when we had our first ‘chat’?” he asks.

“I don’t need legilimency for that,” she replies, understanding what he’s trying to imply, “I just know the look.”

She doesn’t press the issue any more than that, instead taking the time to pour him more tea and waiting patiently while watching him with kind eyes.

He lets himself imagine how Pandora Lovegood might look standing in the kitchen and thinks of the things people owe to one another.

“It’s not technically about my family.”

“Ah,” she says with a nod, “it’s about us.”

“Us” is a vague way of putting it, but considering she doesn’t — or shouldn’t — know about Sirius and Remus, it’s the best way to sum up who he’s thinking about.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It’s about you. And everyone else.”

“Is it something you want to share?”

“I don’t… I don’t think I can,” he admits. “I’m not. I don’t think–, I’m not ready.”

“That’s alright,” she says. “Will it hurt us?”

“It might.”

“I see why you’re having trouble then.” She cups her hands around her tea. “How are you doing, Fullmetal?”

He’s thrown off by the non sequitur; he’d fully expected some kind of knowledgeable and reasonable piece of advice about his current problems.

“I’ve been better,” he says eventually.

She smiles. “I know. It comes and it goes.” She notices the confusion on his face. “The good things in life, I mean. Being happy, feeling loved, and all the other things besides.”

“Seems like it never lasts,” Ed says quietly.

“Maybe you’re focusing too much on the bad things.”

“It’s hard not to,” he admits. “Things have been… rough, at times. A lot of times. Okay, honestly, most of the time.”

“I’m grateful you’re telling me,” Luna says, “I imagine it’s hard for you to do.”

“It is.”

“It’s not your fault,” she says. “It’s difficult to let others get to know you. Really know you.”

“Yeah,” Ed agrees. “Talking isn’t my strong suit either.”

She laughs slightly. “I can’t argue that, Fullmetal.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to.”

She regards him with a faint smile. “I’m not asking you to tell me _everything_ , but I think it’d be nice if you knew we’re all ready to lend an ear should you need one.” She traces a random shape onto the wood of the table with the tip of her finger. “It’s hard to let people come too close, because that’s how you can be hurt the most. But the unfortunate reality is that loving someone and asking to be loved comes with the price of being perceived by others, rather than presenting ourselves to them.”

Luna reaches over his automail to hold his left hand and squeezes tightly. He startles, thinking maybe she knows about that too.

“Letting other people see who we are and giving them the chance to make their own opinions about us, rather than trying to force them to consume a front we present… I think that’s when you know it’s out of love, rather than reciprocal consideration.”

She gives his hand one last squeeze.

“No one will be upset with you for taking your time, we just want you to know we’re excited to know you when you’re ready.”

He’s said it before, and he’ll say it again: Luna is the best.

* * * * *

Ed had agreed from the very beginning to let Sirius do the honors of freeing 12 Grimmauld Place from Walburga Black’s wrath and vitriol, so although they’d said the first thing to go would be the wall she’d permanently adhered herself to, in reality, they only rid themselves of her the day Sirius receives his wand.

Ed and Remus watch a giddy Sirius _demolish_ an entire wall with a single wave of his new wand.

“I’ve missed this,” Sirius sighs dreamily. “This is the best feeling ever.”

“Are you referring to the magic or to the destruction?” Remus jokes.

“Both, Moony! Why not both!”

The house renovations are coming to a close, especially after Sirius and Remus make quick work of boggart hunting through the rest of the building.

Ed feels like he’s once again running away from his problems by letting them handle the boggart, but both men insist Ed stay out of it and focus on the rest of the house.

“You could deal with the boiler room for me,” Sirius says, making a face. “Kreacher lives down there and I’d much rather deal with a boggart than him.”

So, he finds the door leading down to the cellar in a back corner. It’s pretty obvious no one human has been down to the basement in long over a decade, because the bricks in the walls are stained black and everything else seems to be covered with a thick layer of grime.

It’s not how disgusting the place is that catches Ed’s notice though.

There’s something wrong with the boiler room and it’s not the weird hovel Kreacher’s built for himself with junk from over the years — there’s something wrong with the air.

All of the hairs on the back of Ed’s neck stand up straight and he can sense that unforgettable evil pressure throbbing about him.

A Horcrux. 

Inside the very building he’s been living in for weeks now.

What are the odds?

It’s not difficult to follow the physical malice that lingers where the Horcrux must be to what is most likely Kreacher’s bed. Ed digs through the scraps of fabric and broken furniture to discover an ornate, gold locket hidden within the rags.

An “S” is outlined on the front in glittering green stones.

“Slytherin,” Ed mutters, not yet attempting to touch the Horcrux.

An obnoxious crack echoes around the room as Kreacher appears, teeth bared and nostrils flaring.

“DO NOT TOUCH THAT!”

“Why do you have this?” Ed asks, gesturing towards the piece of jewelry. “Do you even know what this is?”

“It belongs to Master Regulus!” the house elf snarls. “And it is NOT meant for HANDS like friend’s of filthy traitor!”

“Where the fuck did he get this?”

“I do not answer to you,” Kreacher snaps. “Leave!”

Ed recalls the way Sirius had described Regulus that one time and connects the dots that Regulus Black was likely a Death Eater.

“Did he get this from Ri–, from Voldemort?”

“That is not business for nosy friend of filthy traitor to know!”

“If Regulus was a fucking Death Eater, it _is_ my business,” he retorts. “I’m taking this.”

He hesitates, debating who would be more furious with him should his new automail fall apart so soon after he’d received it: Remus and Sirius, Madam Pomfrey, or Drentier.

Actually, it’s pretty clear who’d be more pissed.

_Drentier’s going to murder me._

He hesitates one moment longer.

_Fuck it._

Using his automail, Ed grabs the locket by its chain and braces for any evil side effects waiting to curse him.

He breathes a sigh of relief when nothing happens and the sinister pulse of energy coming off of the Horcrux is subdued by the metal of his limb, although he can imagine how adversely his flesh might react to it.

Kreacher lets out a cry and charges at him, but Ed’s learned over the years to be quick on his feet and dodges easily. The elf trips over the edge of his own nest and into his bed while Ed prepares himself for a potential fight (albeit, not a high-stakes one).

“Return what belongs to Master at once!” Kreacher shouts.

“You can’t keep this!” Ed yells back.

An image flashes in front of his eyes: his hands gripping the elf’s skinny neck and wringing it, Kreacher with huge, unblinking eyes and a broken neck.

He drops the necklace immediately.

Despite his job description, Ed isn’t inclined towards violence.

Sure, he actively uses it to get his way with awful people and get rid of pests, but he’s never used senseless violence on people who were weaker than him or incapable of holding their own in a fight, even when they’re the ones starting it.

He’s a soldier, but he knows better than to be a bully.

Whatever that thought was, it wasn’t him.

(He swears to himself it can’t be.)

Ed drops his protective stance and furrows his brow. “Kreacher, how long have you had this?”

The house elf is completely thrown off by Ed’s sudden change in demeanor. “You are giving it back?”

“Not that,” Ed says impatiently. “How long has this just been sitting in your bed?”

“Sixteen years,” Kreacher answers with a scowl. “Master Regulus gave to Kreacher for safe-keeping sixteen years ago.”

“That would explain the running murderous commentary,” Ed mutters as he glances back down at the locket.

Kreacher makes no move to snatch it off the ground. If anything, he eyes it warily, with a glare that is full of mistrust and anger more than anything else.

“Okay, better question,” Ed announces, looking back at Kreacher. “ _Why_ are you holding onto this?”

“Because Master Regulus trusted Kreacher to de–, to keep it,” Kreacher answers, fumbling over his words. He scowls, narrowing his eyes at Ed. “Friend of filthy traitor is asking too many questions.”

“You were about to say ‘destroy it’, weren’t you?”

The scowl turns into another snarl. “It is no business of friend of filthy traitor!”

Ed sighs out of exasperation. “Kreacher, it’d be so much faster if you just called me Ed — that way you could insult me at about twice the speed you are now.”

“Stupid Ed,” Kreacher spits out. “Nosy Ed. Ugly, short Ed. Ed needs to leave!”

“You know what? That was entirely on me,” Ed says, trying to get a grip on his rising irritation.

The locket is still on the ground between them.

He decides to try a different route. “Hard to destroy, isn’t it?”

Kreacher blinks.

“I bet you’ve tried a bunch of crap over the last sixteen years. Didn’t leave a dent, not even a scratch on it, from what I can see.” He pauses, glancing at the elf from the corner of his eye. “Can’t imagine Regulus would be too happy about that.”

Kreacher’s lip quivers and Ed almost feels bad, but he keeps pushing.

“He asked you to destroy it for him and here it is, in perfect condition, so many years later—”

“Kreacher has tried,” the house elf interrupts. “Kreacher would never disobey an order from Master.”

“But it didn’t work,” Ed says.

“Nothing worked,” Kreacher mumbles, covering his face with his bony fingers. “Kreacher deserves to die.”

“Woah, woah, no. No. Absolutely not, don’t say that!” Ed snaps. “Is that something Regulus said to you?”

Kreacher instantly looks angry. “Master was kind to Kreacher. Master was _good_. Stupid Ed does not get to speak of Master that way!”

Ed throws his hands up. “Alright, god, I get it. You worship the ground he walked on and all that bullshit, even when he was a fucking Death Eater.”

“MASTER REGULUS WAS NOT!” Kreacher shouts.

“Are you sure? Because this—” he points at the locket “— is definitely one of Voldemort’s. Probably pretty important to him too, so unless Regulus was considerably good friends with Voldy, there’s no other way he’d have been able to get his hands on this.”

Kreacher snaps back. “Master Regulus took it from the Dark Lord. He told Kreacher to destroy it. He was no friend of the Dark Lord!”

That’s surprising information, considering what Sirius has mentioned of his younger brother and his loyalty to “pureblood” culture.

“What happened exactly?” Ed demands.

Kreacher could not be making an angrier scowl. “Why should Kreacher tell stupid, ugly Ed?”

Maybe he should have let Kreacher keep calling him “friend of filthy traitor” after all — that’s a problem for later.

“Because I can destroy it, Kreacher.”

The change in demeanor is instantaneous; Kreacher’s eyes go wide and Ed’s never seen the house elf without the permanent frown on his face before.

“Ed can destroy Master’s necklace?”

“I’ll destroy it, Kreacher,” Ed promises. “Let me have it and I’ll let you watch it happen.”

“How will Kreacher know Ed is telling the truth?”

The grin spreading on Ed’s face is vicious. “Can you keep a secret?”

* * * * *

When Sirius and Remus finish up their part of the renovations and head to the kitchen for dinner, they’re stunned to see an eager Kreacher assisting Ed with the cooking.

“Wh–, what the hell happened?” Sirius asks, staring at the smile (that looks like a ferocious show of teeth) on Kreacher’s wrinkled face.

“What do you mean?” Ed asks, feigning innocence.

“I suppose Sirius is talking about the change to Kreacher’s, er, current… attitude?” Remus says diplomatically.

“I dunno, you should probably ask him,” Ed shrugs.

“What?” Sirius furrows his brow. “He wouldn’t answer that.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Kreacher!” he calls out.

The house elf rushes to his side in an instant.

“How can Kreacher help Ed?”

He can’t help but snort at the look on the two men’s faces.

“You wanna tell Sirius and Remus why you’re in a good mood?”

“Oh, yes,” Kreacher says, almost excitedly. “Ed helped Kreacher.”

The house elf leaves without elaborating on anything and Ed shrugs again.

“Maybe he’s just happy.”

“I thought he’d be properly angry by the fact I just turned my mother’s portrait to rubble earlier,” Sirius says, still confused.

“He called you by your name,” Remus says, stunned.

“Yeah, and you do too?”

“Why are you acting like this isn’t weird!” Sirius demands.

Ed hides a laugh behind a cough. “What’s weird? Everything’s exactly the same as always.”

Sirius begins to have a mental breakdown trying to figure out what could’ve caused the change in Kreacher while Remus just sighs.

“You really do know how to drive people insane,” he says.

“Thanks,” Ed says with a shit-eating grin.

* * * * *

“I’m thinking of formally adopting Harry, now that I’ve got my wand and everything,” Sirius announces one evening at dinner.

 _The Daily Prophet_ had recently published an entire spread about the Ministry falsely accusing Sirius Black twelve years ago for the deaths of twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew, who was recently discovered to be alive. It’s quickly become some of the biggest news of the decade, only narrowly missing first place by the fact that the Boy Who Lived started his wizarding education three years ago.

Not only is Sirius publicly a free man once more, but the house is also coming together quite nicely. 

All of the marble and wrought-metal furniture had been replaced with second-hand armchairs and overstuffed cushions and warm-colored wood. The walls are now painted a deep crimson and Sirius proudly displays a number of Gryffindor memorabilia around the house.

(When Remus tacks on a Hufflepuff banner for Ed’s sake, Sirius scowls and complains about “the longest, least funny prank he’s endured since his joke of a prison sentence”.

Shortly after, Ed accurately calls him dramatic and he is somehow offended by it.)

It is a house that feels lived in and welcoming rather than cold and unforgiving as it had been before — it’d be a good place for an orphaned teenage boy to find a home.

Remus lights up at the prospect. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to leave the Dursley household.”

“Oh, definitely. I’ve been getting bits and pieces about them through his letters and they sound like absolute pricks. I’ve already told him to say I will threaten bodily harm if they keep it up.”

Ed hides a grimace by ducking his head as the men start discussing the formalities of Sirius actually fulfilling his role as a godfather.

The last thing he’d ever talked about with the boy who lived was how and why he’d been involved with said godfather.

He gets the impression Harry wouldn’t take kindly to Ed living with the pair before he had had the chance to do so.

“So? What do you think?” Sirius turns expectantly towards Ed, pulling him back into the conversation.

“I don’t really know him,” Ed responds carefully. “It’s your house.”

“Yeah, and I’m asking you what you think,” Sirius says expectantly. “You live here too, you know.”

He snorts. “Gee, thanks, I wouldn’t’ve known otherwise.”

“You know what I meant! Why do you always—” he turns to face Remus “—why does he always do this?”

Remus sighs. “And why do you always turn to me whenever Ed’s being Ed? I’ve already tried everything for an entire school year, I have no solution to offer you.”

“He just wants you to tell me to shut up since he knows I won’t say it back to you,” Ed grins.

“Shut up,” Sirius says.

“You shut up,” Ed retorts.

“See?” They say in unison, turning to face Remus, who’s rubbing his temples slowly.

“Oh, I definitely see,” he answers, trying very hard not to look at either of them. 

“Honestly, I don’t think he likes me all too much after the whole shit-show at the end of the term,” Ed says at last. “Not sure how he’ll react to me living here.”

“He already knows,” Sirius points out. “I complain about you in my letters.”

Ah. Well, that would explain the increase in Ron’s nosiness and angry frowns whenever Ed’s at the Burrow.

“Rude, you don’t complain about Remus?”

“Oh, I bitch about him too.”

Remus snorts. “I’ll be sure to thank Harry for putting up with you in letter format.”

“Why don’t you ever thank me for putting up with him in physical person format?”

“Because you never thank me,” Remus replies.

“Sometimes I hate you both so much,” Sirius announces, as if either of them would seriously believe that.

“Sure,” Ed says dismissively.

Remus ignores Sirius in favor of taking a bite of salad and promptly gagging.

The rest of dinner is spent laughing at Remus’ failed attempt to act cool.

* * * * *

There are nine words that perfectly explains why Harry Potter doesn’t move into 12 Grimmauld Place the very next day: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore is a control freak. 

The man insists Sirius wait for an undetermined length of time for some reason or other before offering Harry the option of moving in. It’s some complicated bureaucratic bullshit, just like all the paperwork with Sirius’ reinstatement into society.

“It’s grown up stuff,” Sirius says, mostly as a joke, while trying to ruffle Ed’s hair.

It’d be rude to admit aloud, but Ed is honestly relieved. He doesn’t think he could deal with Harry breathing down his neck at every turn — he already gets enough of that from Ron at the Burrow.

“Hopefully it works out,” he offers as a platitude.

“Hopefully,” the man replies with a bittersweet smile.

* * * * *

Neville’s birthday is on the 30th of July, meaning the remaining members of the book club plan a casual get-together for the day before, seeing as Neville’s grandmother has some official dinner party intended for the actual day of his birth.

They meet, as always, at Ranklebury’s, where they treat Neville to his favorite blueberry-lavender cake and sing him an off-key rendition of the birthday song, much to his embarrassment. When they’re all done eating and chatting about Neville’s birthday plans, they offer him a variety of odds and ends in the way of presents, including Blaise, which seems to surprise everyone.

Ed, Blaise, and Ginny give Neville plant-related tools and books while Luna offers him a number of handmade outfits for Trevor. Fred and George outdo themselves by presenting him with an assortment of sweets in a decorated box, claiming they’re all homemade and “surprise” flavors.

“It’s part of our new business venture,” George explains. “We’re planning on selling them once the term starts.”

“I wouldn’t eat them,” Ginny warns.

“You should absolutely eat them,” Fred insists, “or give them to someone and watch them eat it. Ginny just doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

She scoffs. “I have one, actually.”

“Not a good one,” George amends.

“Better than yours,” Blaise counters, politely, to which George immediately gasps.

“Are you actually making a joke?” he asks.

“Don’t take her side!” Fred shouts. “She’s not that funny!”

“My apologies,” Blaise says innocently, turning to face Fred. “Perhaps not as funny as George, but more funny than you?”

“Someone needs to get Fred a mediwizard, because that one had to have hurt,” Ginny grins.

Fred sticks out his tongue. “Don’t be mean, I’m, like, sensitive.”

Most of them laugh at that, although Blaise just smiles like he always does and Ed snorts while rolling his eyes.

It’s a good deal later that Neville gets around to asking, “Come to think of it, when’s your birthday, Ed?”

“Mm?” He’s still reading one last paragraph about Muggle car engines in his latest book.

“Birthday, Ed. When’s your birthday?” Fred repeats.

“Third of February, eigh–” He cuts himself off. Wrong year for this reality.

Luna stares at him, but the rest of the book club begin to give him grief for not mentioning it earlier.

“We could have sent another Howler,” Fred complains. “You’ve robbed us of the opportunity.”

“Considering what you sent for Easter, you don’t get to complain.”

After Christmas, the twins had taken to sending him Howlers on every holiday, even the ones they were physically present for. It always made Luna laugh and Ed scowl in the way that meant he was somewhat amused, which only served to encourage them.

“Can’t believe you already turned fourteen then.”

Ed’s confused. “What?”

Neville is equally confused. “What?”

“Wait, what?” Fred says this time.

“Did you just turn thirteen?” Ginny asks curiously.

“Are you implying I’m _short_ for my age?!”

“That depends on your age,” Ginny answers reasonably and to which Ed responds with an unreasonable noise.

“I’m sixteen,” he says defiantly.

“What!” The twins both shout. “We’re sixteen!”

No one needs to point out that Ed is considerably shorter than the majority of the book club members, with Ginny being the shortest, and he only has one or two inches on her anyways.

“If Ed’s birthday is in February, he’s actually older than you two,” Ginny says.

“No way,” Fred says, gaping.

“Maybe this is a dream,” George adds.

Everyone stares at Ed and then the twins, and then back at Ed.

His face heats up. “Fuck you guys, it’s not that big of a deal!”

“It… kind of is?” Neville speaks up. “You’re a fourth year now and you’re already sixteen?”

“I was homeschooled before this,” Ed points out. “Maybe Dumbledore thought I needed remedial lessons.”

“But you don’t need any,” Blaise says slowly. “You understand everything perfectly. Now I don’t understand.”

Ginny says what they’re all thinking, but are too nervous to say. “Do you think Dumbledore put you two years behind because you’re so short and he got confused?”

His long-winded rant about his height doesn’t even scare them anymore — they just bite back their laughs to be considerate of his feelings.

(Ed finds that he doesn’t mind it as much as he normally would.)

* * * * *

He knows what he agreed to, but somehow Ed didn’t fully realize how awful seeing the entirety of the Golden Trio again would be until he shows up at the Burrow bright and early the day of the Quidditch World Cup. 

Although, to be fair, their glares are partially obscured by an overly enthusiastic Fred and Ginny.

“It’s the World Cup,” Ginny points out when she accurately interprets Ed’s neutral expression as surprise. “Who wouldn’t be excited?”

“Ed, clearly,” George snorts.

“ _Clearly_ , Ed is _super_ thrilled to be here,” he deadpans. 

Fred flicks his forehead. “Shut up, we know we basically dragged you into coming and you’re a horrible actor, but will you lighten up and try to pretend this isn’t torture? It’ll be loads of fun.”

“Where are we even going? I thought the World Cup was pretty far from here.” 

They’re trekking through the forest early in the morning, with Mr. Weasley heading the group.

“We’re going to walk all the way there,” Fred jokes.

“We’ve got to take a Portkey,” Ginny says, rolling her eyes at her brother’s antics.

The four of them start bickering about how long it’d take to walk there and what the actual best means of transportation is — while the Golden Trio are _still_ glaring —when they run into Cedric and his father. 

Cedric is as kind and polite as ever, while his father radiates an energy that oozes Extremely Proud Parent with every word.

“I’m really sorry about him,” he says sheepishly when Amos Diggory will not let up on his spiel about Cedric’s unmatched Quidditch skills to anyone who will give him even a second of attention.

“You should be,” Fred mutters. “Gryffindor should’ve won.”

“Don’t be,” Ed says over him. He snorts at the look on the twins’ and Ginny’s faces. “I’ve been told it’s important to have House pride.”

That starts another round of bickering that Cedric is all too polite and mature to be involved in, but not polite or mature enough to not laugh at or stop altogether.

* * * * *

It’s kind of crazy how much can happen in so little time.

Ed learns that portkeys are basically touch-based, forced apparition and instantly loathes the idea of traveling back to the Burrow by the same means of transportation — he swears to the twins and to Ginny that he’d rather walk back barefoot over hot coals.

The twins bet the entirety of their personal savings on the outcome of the game and subsequently, Ed manages to pay for every single thing he, Fred, George, and Ginny do, with the lame excuse that it’s to compensate for the cost of the ticket.

(“Marry him faster, will you?” Ginny stage-whispers to Fred.

“I will push you off the stands,” Fred threatens with pink cheeks.

George, wisely, says nothing.)

There’s pre-game entertainment in the form of some kind of dancing and magical fireworks and then all of a sudden, the match is in full swing.

Ed stands by his first impression of the sport and swears Quidditch is, by far, one of the biggest wastes of energy a person could commit themselves to using at all (although that’s just his personal opinion on any organized sport). Ginny and the twins can see it written all over his face a few minutes into the match, but Mr. Weasley doesn’t and continuously tries to get Ed to join in cheering for the Irish team.

There aren’t enough words in English and Amestrian combined to explain how much Ed hates the idea of _cheering_ for anything, let alone a team sport.

Somehow, the least surprising thing is that the match ends with Ireland winning the game, but Viktor Krum, the Bulgarian seeker, catching the Snitch, just as Fred and George had predicted.

Greasy food, nice weather, and good company — even Ed can begrudgingly admit the World Cup had been a good time, aside from the actual Quidditch.

He and his friends talk late into the night in the Weasley’s magically expanded tent and when they fall asleep, Ed lays in his bedroll, trying to commit his first time attending a “fun” event to memory.

But everything changes when the Death Eaters attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> thank y'all for reading and commenting, giving kudos, bookmarking, etc! :-)
> 
> we finally made it to the world cup, and i think i've finally figured out just how much is going to change in fourth year with pettigrew out of the way, so yay for that!
> 
> i definitely cut it real close with the update time, i'll be better about managing my time next month :-)
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	14. edward elric and his inability to stay out of trouble (aka edward elric's step-by-step guide to beating up a death eater)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed beats up a few death eaters, harry potter gets into trouble, and school's back in session

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth, y'all!
> 
> JUST TO CLARIFY: i didn't include the oldest weasleys until the burrow scene because i wanted them to properly meet ed 
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay safe and healthy especially now during the holidays!

Ed can smell the smoke in the air long before he exits the tent and right before he ventures out, he starts to hear a series of screams not too far off in the distance.

The world is steadily growing on fire outside, hellish orange flames eating away at the edges of the campground.

He runs back inside, yelling at the top of his lungs.

“Get up!” he shouts, shaking a few of the Weasleys as he goes. “We need to go _now!_ ”

“Wha–? Ed?” Fred squints at him in the dim light of the tent. 

“Bloody hell, whad’ya talkin’ ‘bout?” Ron mumbles, turning over in his bedroll.

“Something bad’s going on outside, everything’s on _fire_ , and people are screaming, so get the fuck up, we NEED TO RUN!” Ed shouts.

Mr. Weasley is quick to check outside the tent and confirm Ed’s words.

“We’re leaving immediately,” he says, pulling on his coat. “Leave everything.” 

Mr. Weasley directs the not quite seventeen-year-olds to run away from the approaching madness, while taking Percy along with him as he rushes towards it.

“We need to help if we can,” he says grimly. “Head for the forest, it’ll be safer there.”

Ed is fully prepared to protect the ~~civilians~~ inexperienced wizards and guide them to safety before running off and doing his own thing, because there is no fucking way, alternate reality or not, that the Fullmetal Alchemist is going to sit on his ass and let people get hurt just because he’s not of legal age here.

He’s never cared for laws before and he has no intention of starting the habit now.

“You heard him,” Ed says impatiently. “Let’s go.”

“We’re not listening to _you_ ,” Hermione says, scandalized by the very thought.

Ed presses his hands to his eyes, the stress building up as pressure against his skull. “Then fucking listen to Mr. Weasley and start running like your god damn life depends on it, because for all we _fucking_ know, it DOES,” he snaps.

Hermione pales slightly, before scowling and opening her mouth to argue again, when Ron grips her by the shoulder and shakes his head. 

“Prick’s right,” he says. 

“Oi, you lot, hurry _up_!” Fred yells, a few steps ahead of them. “You can fight about this petty shite later!”

“Language,” Ed hisses, but he’s already grabbing for his wand and shoving the rest of the underaged wizards towards the trees. “Run!”

They’re fully into the forest when Ginny shouts at them, grabbing the twins by the arms. “Where’s the rest of them?”

Ed is going to strangle the Chosen One with his bare hands. How the fuck did that particular trio manage to get _lost_ when they were literally all running _together_?

“ _Fuck, why the fuck does this always happen!_ ” Ed mutters, trying to think out the best plan. He doesn’t want to drag the other ~~civilians~~ underaged wizards back into the mess they just left behind, but he can’t in good conscience leave those three idiots to fend for themselves, whatever they got themselves into this time.

“Ugh, alright, fuck. We’re going to look for them, but _we_ are sticking together.” 

Fred and George nod, grim.

“Let’s go,” Ginny says, face twisted in concern.

They start to run back towards the clearing.

Whatever is going on in the campgrounds is getting significantly worse, seeing as Ed spots a number of hauntingly still bodies float up into the air when they break from the treeline.

“Death Eaters,” George breathes, halting suddenly as his eyes turn wide and horrified. “They, that can, oh Merlin, they must, there must be Death Eaters.”

The other three turn quickly to see what George is staring at and are confronted with the scene of three masked wizards hexing a person who is clearly a Muggle, easily recognized by attire alone.

The Muggle screams, writhes, then goes unnaturally limp as they sail upward. 

Ed’s blood _boils_.

He hasn’t felt so angry in so long, instantly outraged at the sheer audacity of weak-minded fools to _torment_ and gang up on an innocent person, hidden behind a _mask_ of all things.

He hasn’t seen such cowardice in years.

“Hey, assholes!”

Ed’s off and running before any of his friends can stop him, sprinting with purpose towards the Death Eaters, who turn towards the sound of his voice.

* * * * *

Here’s the thing about wizards that Ed, Muggle-born wizards, Muggles, and anyone with even two brain cells would notice about magic-based fights: wizards are basically one-trick ponies.

Is magic incredibly broad in its application? Fuck yeah, there are things made possible that Ed honestly considers a violation of natural laws, no matter how normal it is to a wizard. Magic is only as limited as the imagination of the person who wields it.

But do wizards also get stuck thinking their wand is enough to deal with any given situation? Hell yeah.

With that piece of information in mind, this is _Edward Elric’s Step-By-Step Guide to Beating Up a Death Eater_.

Step 1: break their wand.

Step 2: any fucking thing you want because now they’re utterly helpless and at your mercy. 

* * * * *

Death Eater #1 raises their wand as if to send a spell Ed’s way, but he’s quicker to the punch — literally.

He raises his left arm to block their wand arm, using enough force to elicit a strangled shout from them, while simultaneously pulling back his right arm and punching the wizard directly in the center of their mask.

His automail doesn’t get any sensation, but Ed can hear the audible crunch of the Death Eater’s nose where his fist collides with their face.

Spotting movement in his peripheral vision, Ed automatically ducks down and sweeps his leg out to the side, making contact with Death Eater #2’s shins. Their wand goes flying out of their hand and Ed barely has time to process that Death Eater #1 is bent over, both hands clasped over the cracked mask, blood spilling freely between their fingers, before Death Eater #3 shoots a series of angry red sparks at him.

“You fuck!” Ed shouts, leaping off to the side and rolling back to his feet.

He charges at the last Death Eater, ignoring their two comrades struggling back up to their feet.

Clearly, none of these idiots have ever had someone attempt a physical counterattack — actually, it seems like they’ve never met someone willing to attempt one at all.

Ed dodges several other spells, the pressure of magic behind them shoving past him as he tries to get closer to the Death Eater.

He gets in close, to the alarm of the wizard (who _shrieks_ , mind you), and jabs directly into their kidney. They immediately hunch over with a wheeze, dropping their wand as they do.

Wow.

Not that Ed thought this through in any way, shape, or form, but he’d anticipated being somewhat rusty in the physical confrontation area of his skill set, considering the last time he’d thrown a punch had been at Draco, and that’d been one with very different intentions from his current ones.

But as Ed raises his fists to his face in a hasty fighting stance, he stops abruptly as he realizes that all but one of the Death Eaters have lost their grips on their wands and are frantically searching the grass for any sign of their stupid little sticks.

And that’s really what it is, isn’t it? A stupid little stick that makes them think they’re so much better than a non-magical person.

Death Eater #2, who still has their wand, shouts, “Accio wands!”, bringing Ed right back into the thick of things. He lunges as one of the wands whizz by his face, just barely managing to snatch it out of the air.

The other wand ends up in Death Eater #2’s extended hand and #2 grabs their helpless comrades and apparates before Ed can reach them.

“FUCK!” Ed yells. “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!”

He clenches his fists and the foreign wand in his hand splinters. He tosses it off to the side. 

“Good fucking riddance,” he mutters.

The floating Muggle suddenly collapses and Ed lunges to catch them, with assistance from his friends, who rush over to his side.

The man is portly and not much taller than Ed, which is convenient as he directs George to help him carry the man to safety.

“Were—, bloody _hell_ , were you actually a Muggle Death Eater?” Fred asks weakly.

Ed scowls. “A what?”

“Now’s not the time, Fred,” Ginny says.

The Weasleys look freaked out. They’re paler than usual and their faces are eerily lit up by the flickering orange light of the surrounding fires.

“It’ll be okay,” Ed says, ignoring Fred’s question for now. “We’ll be okay.”

He’s not sure that’s as reassuring as he means it to be when there’s blood drying on his gloves — at least it’s not his blood this time around.

_Fuck, I forgot they were here._

This isn’t exactly the same as Ed’s previous fights, but it’s not an unfamiliar sight: rampaging fires, assholes acting like they can do whatever they want to whoever they want without any consequences, screaming and pandemonium as civilians run for cover.

Cue the Fullmetal Alchemist.

Taking down belligerent weaklings with a single swing of his fist is a natural instinct and having an audience in the form of bystanders isn’t out of the norm.

The problem lies in the fact that Ed hadn’t ever _known_ the bystanders before.

And he hadn’t ever been hiding his identity from them either. He’d always been proud to be an alchemist when it meant he could be helping people, even if most of them thought Al was the actual Fullmetal Alchemist.

He pulls himself back to the present and focuses on supporting the man hanging off of him and George, especially as he does his best to ignore the way Fred is babbling nervously behind him.

“I mean, I know you’re Muggle-raised, but that was, well, that was _bloody_. As in, actual bodily fluids blood, bloody. Blood inside people, inside us, kind of bloody—”

“We can talk about it later, I swear, but Fred, this is literally the worst time for this,” Ed says evenly, despite the multitude of things running through his brain at the moment.

There’s the click of Fred’s teeth from how fast he shuts his jaw.

The sudden lack of conversation only emphasizes the sound of screams and shouts surrounding them, growing exponentially louder.

George falters, turning to look as if on instinct.

“Don’t look,” Ed grits out between clenched teeth, tugging him by the shirt sleeve. “You can’t–, no, _we_ can’t do anything right now. There’s too many of them.”

He pulls, a little harder this time, before George fully turns and starts to walk once more, but not without digging his nails into Ed’s arm and grimacing all the while. Fred and Ginny hover around them as they move, all four of them now intently focusing on returning to the forest with the man in tow.

Ed feels utterly helpless in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Not because he can’t deal with the Death Eaters, because he’s pretty certain he could decimate them without relying on alchemy at all.

No, he feels helpless because he’s never been controlled by social constraints relating to his perceived identity. Even now, he’s fully capable of storming the clearing as a one-man army and fighting off the Death Eaters and protecting the vulnerable from further harm. 

There are no alchemists here.

There is no expectation that Ed, as an underage wizard, can do much of anything in such a situation.

But he _is_ an alchemist; whether other people know it or not, _he_ knows it. 

He lives it. 

_Be thou for the people._

If he’s standing around, watching things turn to shit at the hands of a few masked criminals, he can’t deign to call himself an alchemist anymore.

But if he uses alchemy, would that lead to more questions from his friends, from bystanders, from the Ministry, if things get that far?

Is it selfish to want to protect his identity as a displaced existence, when he knows he’s capable of using his abilities for good?

Immovable rock, meet unstoppable force.

He struggles with the clashing sentiments in silence, wondering if Al would be ashamed of his actions. Would Winry?

There’s a blast of magic from nearby.

“Oh,” Fred says quietly. He’s terrified, that much is clear, as he raises a trembling hand towards the sky.

Ed follows Fred’s fingers and discovers the spell that went off casts an ominous green glow to the entirety of the campground.

“Dark mark,” Ed mutters, scowling at the skull and snake circling the sky. “But who cast it?”

* * * * *

Ed has probably never met a person who has worse timing than Harry fucking Potter.

Despite Ed’s earlier insistence that they run for cover, the _usual suspects_ had run away from the forest and ended up in the midst of the chaos, appearing in the same clearing that the Dark Mark could be traced back to.

And whose wand should have been found to cast the spell other than Harry. Fucking. Potter.

(Granted, his wand had somehow ended up in the hands of Bartemius Crouch’s house elf, but regardless, Harry fucking Potter has horrible timing.)

The only person dumber than Potter are the adult wizards accusing him of casting the spell at all, as if the Boy Who Lived would actually consider joining Riddle’s forces. Said wizards are apparently members of the Ministry, which doesn’t soothe Ed’s concerns about the strength of the local wizarding government at all.

“It’s your wand!” Crouch shouts.

“I told you, I lost it somewhere!” Harry says back, frustration all too clear. “I didn’t cast that spell! I didn’t even know what spell it was!”

“ _Idiot,_ ” Ed mutters, unsure if he’s talking about Harry or Crouch at the moment. Either person works in this scenario anyway.

Ron and Hermione are standing protectively next to Harry, while Mr. Weasley is attempting to mediate a civil conversation between a fourteen-year-old boy and a high-ranking Ministry official.

Percy is busy at Crouch’s side, fulfilling his role as Crouch’s assistant.

Ed and the rest of the Weasleys linger on the edge of the clearing. The Muggle Ed and George had carried into the forest had been left with one of the emergency mediwizards who’d been rushed into the scene.

According to what Ed’s overheard so far, the Death Eaters had apparated away at the first sign of the insignia scorched into the night sky, meaning they aren’t the ones to put it there in the first place. But if you aren’t a Death Eater to start with, why the hell would you care to shoot off a giant signal declaring you’re one of Riddle’s brainwashed minions?

“Do you really think the Boy Who Lived would be the one to conjure the Dark Mark?” Mr. Weasley asks earnestly.

Bartemius Crouch frowns deeply, as if the question offends him somehow. “But it’s his wand.”

Ed has had more logical arguments as a child than Crouch has now as a senior official and that’s just pathetic.

Eventually, Crouch concedes, but not without causing further harm.

“Winky, you are dismissed.”

The house elf sobs, begs at the feet of the man who cast her aside, while everyone else can’t help but look on.

Hermione, in particular, appears outraged, her eyebrows furrowed in anger and the corner of her mouth turning down sharply.

The rest of the Ministry wizards begin preparations for a more official search of the clearing as Mr. Weasley ushers Harry, Ron, and Hermione over to join the rest of them. Percy doesn’t come back, still standing at attention by Crouch’s side.

“We should head back to the tent,” Mr. Weasley explains. “I’ll be just a moment, wait here, will you?” He leaves to exchange words with a different Ministry official.

Hermione bites her lip. “What about Winky?”

Ron shrugs. “What about her? Crouch sacked her, I’m sure she’ll be able to get better work elsewhere.”

“But she’s… she seems so upset.”

“Let’s just ask her to come with us then,” Ed interrupts them, earning a startled shriek from Ron. “Hey! You!”

The Ministry wizards scattered around look up at Ed with confused and irritated expressions.

“Ed, wait, don’t—,” Ginny whisper-yells, grasping at his sleeve. 

Ed ignores her. “Not you, you!” He gestures towards Winky, who squints at him through her tears. “I want to ask you something!”

“Who is you?” Winky hiccups. She’s still squinting at him and big, fat tears stream down her thin face as she talks.

“No one important,” Ed responds hastily. “Just wondering. You got a place to go?”

“I is—, was—, _hic_ , was supposed to be going home to Master Crouch,” she says, breathing unevenly. She holds her breath.

“I’m going to take that as a no, then.” Ed runs his tongue across the front of his teeth. He knows who he should call, but he doesn’t exactly know if doing so reveals too much information to the wrong people.

Winky starts to sob again, muffling the sound of her own crying with her hands.

Fuck it, Ed hasn’t been able to do nearly as much as he’d like tonight, so the least he can do is this.

“Kreacher?” he calls out, only slightly unsure of himself.

There’s a loud crack and the house elf is standing in front of him, glancing about his surroundings before addressing Ed.

“Is Ed needing help?” Kreacher asks, hopeful.

“Uh, kind of? This is Winky,” Ed explains, gesturing towards the distraught elf. “I think she might need a place to stay, for now. Uh, that is, if, uh…, if _he_ is alright with it. You know what I mean?”

Kreacher scowls slightly at the loose reference to Sirius, but quickly nods at Ed and reaches out to Winky. “You is coming with Kreacher, alright? We is going now.”

Winky is still an inconsolable mess, but she obediently takes Kreacher’s open hand and together, the house elves apparate out of sight. Ed watches them go and figures Sirius and Remus probably won’t mind. After all, they took him in — maybe they’re fans of taking in strays.

He recalls the number of times Al had begged him to take in the hordes of stray cats that he’d find on the streets and remembers the way he’d shut Al down every single time. 

Maybe he’d been too harsh.

It’s only when Hermione edges closer to him that he starts paying attention to the “real” world again.

“You have a house elf?” Hermione asks, suspicious as always.

“No, I don’t _have_ one,” Ed replies, “I just know one.” He thinks about Walburga Black’s severed elf heads, before adding, “I don’t really think anyone should _have_ them anyways.”

She looks mildly surprised by his answer, pausing for a moment to scan his face before leaving him to join Harry and Ron.

Mr. Weasley eventually herds them back to their tent, which is miraculously still standing.

“Unfortunately, we’ll have to wait to take the portkey tomorrow morning, as scheduled,” he says. “Try to get some sleep — I know it’s been a long day.”

They settle in for the next few hours; within a few minutes, Ed can clearly hear the heavy breathing and snores of multiple people sleeping.

Lucky them.

* * * * *

It’s early in the morning when Mr. Weasley wakes them up to depart.

Ed had had a restless night, unable to close his eyes in fear of having some kind of uncontrollable nightmare and startling everyone else awake.

Judging by the purple bruises beneath Harry’s eyes, the other boy hadn’t gotten much sleep either.

Everyone is subdued as they pack up their belongings and head out to the portkey, which is an old, rusty bucket this time around.

Ed is barely able to keep himself from vomiting when he finds himself suddenly sprawled out on the field outside the Burrow.

Mrs. Weasley rushes out to meet them, flanked on either side by two unfamiliar redheads.

“Bill and Charlie,” George murmurs to Ed, who nods gratefully.

He’d heard of the oldest Weasley siblings, but had yet to meet them. He’d thought they’d be attending the World Cup as well, but Fred had explained they weren’t able to return to England in time to do so.

“But they’ll be visiting soon,” he’d said. 

“Oh, I was so worried!” Mrs. Weasley cries, grabbing the twins and pulling them close. “I’d thought, oh, what if the last thing I’d been able to say was–, was about your O.W.L.s!”

“That’s why you’ve got to be nicer to us, Mum,” Fred says, his voice muffled by his mother’s shoulder.

George simply wraps his arm around her and squeezes. “Mum, we’re alright.”

They break apart from the hug and Mrs. Weasley glances over everyone, her brow marred with worry lines. “Is everyone alright? Where’s Percy?”

Mr. Weasley sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “He got caught up with work again after last night. I figured he’d know best whether he was needed for longer or not.”

Mrs. Weasley frowns slightly, before shaking her head slightly and turning her attention to Harry.

“That’s strange,” a voice comments. “Never seen you come ‘round before.”

Ed realizes one of the older Weasleys is talking to him. 

He’s stocky and thick, rather than rail-thin like Ron, and is a fair amount shorter than the twins. But he shares their mischievous smile and expressive eyes and of course, sports fiery red hair that’s been haphazardly groomed into a mullet.

“I’m… new, I guess,” Ed says. He sticks out his hand. “I’m Ed.” 

“Charlie.” 

Charlie glances at Ed’s hand before jerking back in surprise. “Woah! Are you alright?”

Ed had also withdrawn his hand at Charlie’s exclamation. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine?”

Charlie reaches out to grab Ed’s right hand, turning it over and revealing the alarming amount of dried blood on his glove. 

_Oh shit._

“You’re bleeding,” Charlie points out.

“That’s not his,” the twins say, just as Ed says, “That’s not mine.”

The three of them exchange glances before looking to Ginny for help.

“It’s not blood, it’s face paint,” Ginny lies. “From the game. Got everywhere, remember?”

“Right,” Charlie says, stretching out the word. “I’ll take your word for it, Gin.” He faces Ed again. “Pleasure to meet you. Heard some things about you over Christmas, but I’ve got to say you’re much shorter than I was imagining.”

Fred, George, and Ginny simultaneously bite their tongues as Ed grouches. “I’m not that short,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m of average height.”

Charlie’s face splits into a wide grin as he laughs goodnaturedly. “Alright, alright, I get it. I’m not so tall myself and these two shot up in the last year or so and now, it looks as if Ron’s probably going to be taller than all of us, so I understand the feeling, mate. I really do.” He sighs. “Should’ve drank more milk when I was still growing, but—”

“Milk is disgusting,” Ed says, which startles another laugh out of Charlie.

“That it is,” he says, nodding in agreement. “Finally! Someone who gets it.”

“Someone who gets what?”

“Someonewho understands how terrible milk actually is,” Charlie responds. 

This must be Bill then. The first thing Ed notices is how long and shiny Bill’s ponytail is and the second is that he sports a number of tattoos on his arms and hands _that move._

“How does it do that?” Ed says, thinking out loud.

“Do what?” Bill asks, tilting his head slightly.

“Oh, uh, it’s nothing,” he answers. “I was just talking to myself.”

Charlie smiles again, while Bill extends a hand. 

“I’m Bill,” he says, “and you must be Ed. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“So I’ve been told,” Ed replies, shooting a glare at the twins, who raise their shoulders in feigned nonchalance.

Bill laughs. “Don’t worry, Fred and George haven’t stopped singing your praises since last December. They’ve already made quite an impression for you, before you ever got here.”

“I’d be less concerned if I knew they were good at singing,” Ed replies dryly.

Both of the older Weasleys bark out a laugh as Fred interjects to explain that he, in fact, _does_ have a beautiful singing voice.

They make small talk, with Fred, George, and Ginny eagerly supplying stories about Ed’s antics during school, much to his embarrassment.

“How old are you?” Charlie asks at one point, sizing Ed up as he does.

“Sixteen,” Ed says, wondering if he’s about to make another comment about his height.

“Drat,” Charlie says, turning to Bill. “Didn’t you think he’d be a good fit? Based on the stories, I mean.”

“A good fit for what?” The twins ask in tandem, leaning forward in interest.

“Like we said before, you’ll find out soon!” Charlie grins, looking back towards Ed. “And if you’re turning seventeen in the next month or so, I think you might be interested as well.”

“That’s totally not vague,” Ed mutters.

“Are you staying too?” Bill asks.

Harry and Hermione were planning on remaining at the Burrow until the term started up again, but Ed had been adamant on leaving the day they returned from the World Cup.

“I couldn’t possibly intrude,” he’d said to Mrs. and Mr. Weasley, while the rest of the kids had made faces and poked fun of his manners in the background.

But now, less than twenty-four hours since Ed had disarmed three Death Eaters in front of his friends, he’s not sure how easily he can escape.

“Oh, I’ve got to get going,” he says apologetically, “but it was nice to meet you both.”

Bill smiles and Charlie waves.

“It was nice to finally meet you,” Charlie says. “Keep Freddie and Georgie out of trouble, would you?”

He smiles politely. “I make no promises.” 

They laugh again.

Ed interrupts Mrs. and Mr. Weasley’s conversation to thank them profusely for taking him along and reassuring them that he’ll be safe to return home for the time being. He knows the twins are hovering just behind him as he says his goodbyes, but tries to act like nothing is out of the ordinary.

He walks into the Burrow, trying to get to the Floo in the kitchen when the twins throw themselves in his path, effectively blocking his exit route.

“We need to talk,” George says, unusually serious.

“Are we breaking up,” Ed deadpans.

Fred splutters. “What! Were you two, you, like _that_ , and you didn’t tell _me_?! —” he turns towards his brother “— GEORGE!”

“Fred,” George says, bringing a hand to rub his temple as he does. “Just… what.”

George glowers at Fred and then grimaces, scrunching his nose up.

Fred responds in kind, with a panicked gesture towards Ed.

George looks from Fred to Ed, back to Fred and then tilts his head with a slight frown.

Whatever conversation they’re having telepathically, Ed isn’t sure. Something complicated, probably. 

“Anyway, what did you want to talk about?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer. 

“Let’s talk in our room,” Fred suggests, already grabbing Ed by the shoulders and steering him upstairs.

The twins’ shared room is an organized mess, filled with what looks like science experiments, books, and complicated diagrams of what looks to be candy and toys. Scraps of parchment have been tacked onto every available surface, with only the occasional decoration or photo left out in plain sight.

Ed lets out a low whistle. “Is this how you make your pranks?”

Fred shrugs. “It’s always been like this. We run the tests outside now, though.”

“Mum said we caused one too many explosions,” George laughs.

“I see,” Ed says, taking in the room as he does. “I’m impressed.”

And he is. He’d known the twins were creative and inventive, but he hadn’t given a lot of thought to the process by which they were able to actually create and invent.

“So, er, Ed. We wanted to talk?” Fred says.

“Yeah, I remember. What about?”

“Er, it’s, it’s about…,” Fred starts, then abruptly turns to George, who sighs, and continues for him.

“It’s about the, the _fighting_ ,” he says, while Fred nods enthusiastically next to him.

Ed tries to embody what he imagines to be the picture of innocence. Wide eyes, slight shock. That should work, right? 

“What about the fighting?” he asks.

“Just, we were wondering if we should be more worried about how you spend your free time over the summer holidays,” George says casually.

“Why? You’re not my mother,” Ed points out.

“Because we’re your friends and we just watched you deck several Death Eaters like some kind of old-fashioned Muggle dueler,” Fred blurts out. 

“You didn’t _just_ watch me, technically that was yesterday,” Ed says, just to be petty and to hopefully delay having this conversation at all. “And Muggles don’t duel.”

Fred shoves him on instinct. “Get out of here with your technicalities.”

Ginny opens the door while knocking. “Are we talking about Ed’s Muggle-fighting skills now?”

“Ginny, there’s no point in knocking if you open the door while you’re doing it,” George sighs.

“Well, don’t start having important conversations without me and I won’t need to open doors while knocking on them,” she responds as she settles down on Fred’s bed. “Anyways, Ed, I think some explanations are in order.”

“Do I have to?” he asks, squeezing his automail into a tight fist. 

“I mean, no one’s going to force you,” Fred says. “We just think, er, maybe… I guess it’s like we don’t know you very well.”

_Letting other people see who we are and giving them the chance to make their own opinions about us, rather than trying to force them to consume a front we present… I think that’s when you know it’s out of love, rather than reciprocal consideration._

“It’s not like you _don’t_ know me,” Ed says, defensive.

“Right,” George reassures him, “we’re not saying we don’t.”

“We’re worried, more than anything else, mate. As in, is it, is it a typical Muggle thing to fight like that? Or know how to fight like that, that’s more accurate…” Fred trails off.

“You guys don’t need to worry about me.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. “No one _needs_ anyone to worry about them, but you’ve made us care about you and now you suffer the consequences. So, the fighting?”

“I just get into a lot of fights, it’s not my fault,” he says dully.

“What kind of fights are you getting into?” George asks.

“Not with anyone who doesn’t deserve it.” Ed scowls, thinking of all the small-time criminals he’d fought up to now.

“I don’t doubt that,” Ginny says wryly. “We’ve all heard about Malfoy.”

“Who hasn’t heard about Malfoy,” Ed mutters. 

“Even Bill and Charlie know about Malfoy,” Ginny adds.

Ed turns on the twins. “You told them?” 

_And my knuckles were bloody the first time I met them. That’s perfect, Fullmetal, you’re giving them a_ great _first impression._

“It’s not like it’s a bad thing!” Fred says, glancing at George.

“You were looking out for Neville,” George says. “And loads of people thought it was brave of you. A bit rough, the way you chose to do it, but the intentions were good.”

Ah, the dangers of good intentions. Like a boy who thought he could bring his mother back or an alchemist who thought he could make a more intelligent chimera.

“Good intentions aren’t everything,” Ed says. He’s standing rigidly against one of the desks in the room, his fist pressed knuckles down on the table’s surface.

The Weasleys exchange a look.

“Well, I suppose not, but it’s the thought that counts,” Ginny tries.

“Sometimes, the thought is just the thought. In the end, isn’t it your actions that matter most?”

“In that case,” George says, “you’ve done a lot of good, too. You’ve helped Neville a lot, when you stood up for him. And you helped the Muggle yesterday.”

Ed scoffs. “In both of those situations, the way I chose to ‘help’ was ‘a bit rough’, as you said.”

“We didn’t bring up the fighting to make you feel bad,” Fred says. “We’re just worried.”

“You keep saying that, but what are you worried about? That I’m going to go out and pick random fights with strangers and beat them senseless? Is that what this is?” Ed snaps.

“We’re worried about the reason you know how to fight at all,” George says.

This conversation is not going at all like Ed thought it would. He furrows his brow. “I don’t get it, what do you mean?”

“Are, er… are _you_ getting, erm, picked on, Ed?” Fred asks, wincing.

“What?” Ed’s stunned.

 _Where did_ that _come from?_

“No, I’m not—, no one’s trying to... I’m not getting bullied.”

_Quite the opposite, Truth be told._

Fred, George, and Ginny visibly relax, almost to the point of sagging in their seats.

“Oh, that’s good then,” Ginny says brightly.

It’s touching that his friends are concerned about his reasons for knowing how to navigate a fight in the first place, because it’s not something he’d ever think would matter to anyone back home, who accepted the fighting as an anticipated requirement for fulfilling his role as a state alchemist.

To think they thought he learned to fight in order to fight back — well, they aren’t wrong. It’s just that he’s never been a helpless kid in the situations in which he learned.

“You guys aren’t worried that I’m some kind of fist-fighting delinquent?”

“We already _know_ you’re a fist-fighting delinquent,” George says.

“Yeah, we just want to know if you’re a happy one that’s doing it because he wants to,” Fred jokes. “And not because he has to,” he adds after some thought.

“You don’t find it odd, in any way?”

“Do you want us to?” Fred shrugs.

“It’s not like we think you’re going out of your way to antagonize people who don’t deserve it. Or lord over people who can’t fight back,” George elaborates. “We’d like to say we know you better than that.”

_We know you better than that._

Ed can feel it in his chest, a soft murmur that beats in sync with his heart. 

_They trust me._

“We just thought maybe more was going on, and maybe you needed some help,” Ginny says. “Because Ron’s told us about Harry and Hermione and how they grew up before, and knowing to fight like you did, it didn’t seem like something you should know at your age.”

The conversation is teetering into “where are you from, how were you raised” territory, which instinctively raises Ed’s hackles. He forces himself to calm down and take a single deep breath.

“It’s… not the most normal,” Ed admits. “It’d be stupid to lie about that. But I… I just had a lot going on growing up. And sometimes that means learning to throw a well-timed punch to the face.” He goes for a lighthearted tone, but he can tell it falls flat, based on the way the Weasleys look at him.

It’s weird to think his friends are practically upset that he knows how to fight. He thought they’d be upset with him for actively causing harm, not because he’d had the skill set to begin with.

“Are you okay now, though? Like are you in a–, a safer place now?” George asks slowly, carefully choosing each word.

“I’m okay now,” Ed says quietly. “Thanks. For worrying about me. That’s… I wasn’t really expecting that.”

He’s never had someone react negatively to his ability to protect, to fight for them — it’s usually the only thing he can offer in times of need: his willingness to put his body on the line for their sake.

Ginny interrupts his thoughts. “Wait, you thought we were going to give you an intervention about your acts of rage?”

“Sort of?” Ed says, still getting over the shock somewhat. “It’d be the normal thing to do.”

“Lucky all your friends are mad then,” Ginny supplies helpfully. “We just want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself too. And maybe tell you that running after Death Eaters is not a smart idea, experience fighting or not.”

“I know it’s not,” Ed says, frowning, “because it’s a great idea. It’s not like I didn’t think I wasn’t capable.”

“Yeah, but still, maybe don’t do that next time,” George says. “You gave us a scare. I thought you were about to get…” He glances around, as if someone might be listening. “Unforgiveables, you know? Death Eaters don’t exactly care about using those on people.”

“I know.” Ed fidgets, unsure how to tell his concerned friends that the threat of torture or death isn’t one that means much to him. He decides not to bring it up. 

“I’ll be more careful. No more fighting Death Eaters. Promise,” he lies.

“We’re holding you to that,” Ginny responds.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Ed says. He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. “So, uh, can I go home now?”

* * * * *

Ed isn’t expecting to be bombarded the minute he gets home, but with the widespread news of the Death Eater attack at the World Cup, it shouldn’t be quite the surprise that it is. 

“ARE YOU ALL IN ONE PIECE!” Sirius shouts two inches from Ed’s face as he gives him a once over, gripping Ed’s shoulders as he does. 

“No,” Ed says dryly, “not _one_ piece.”

“YOU’RE HURT, DID YOU GO TO ST. MUNGO’S, DID A MEDIWIZARD CHECK YOU OVER?”

“No.”

“THEN WHAT IN MERLIN’S NAME ARE YOU WAITING FOR, PERMISSION? WHERE ARE YOU HURT? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU?”

“Plenty of things, but I’m not hurt, you don’t need to shout in my ear.”

“BUT! But, you, I just, you said you’re hurt!”

“I didn’t actually,” Ed says. “You asked if I was all in one piece, and technically, I’m a three piece person,” Ed explains, waving his automail as he does. “Remember?”

Sirius gapes, his mouth wide open like a fish out of water.

“I’ll bloody murder you, brat,” he snaps as he scowls. “I thought my head was going to explode, I was so worried! This wasn’t the time for a joke like that—, you, I, er, we’d thought you’d died, or worse!”

“Worse than dead?” Ed repeats absentmindedly, momentarily thinking of blank white and wide grins. 

“You know what I mean. We thought—, well, we didn’t know how we’d contact you if something had happened. Oh, and then, _then_ , Kreacher shows up with another house elf and just said you needed help! Which is completely vague and we got more worried!”

Now that Sirius keeps mentioning it. “Where’s Remus?”

“He’s been out trying to get more information on what happened and see if he could contact you, since that’d be, well, better than me trying, you know.”

They’re still careful about Sirius going out in public, since his status as a free man is still relatively new.

“You really had us worried,” Sirius says again, stern and anxious and all too serious for Ed’s liking. It’s not like the man to be this concerned.

“I’m sorry,” Ed says, as genuine as he can make it. 

“Don’t do it again,” Sirius says gruffly. There’s a flush to the back of his neck and he is very obviously making a point of not looking directly at him.

“I’ll try,” he answers. “I—, I’ll try.”

“Good,” Sirius says, his voice soft. “That’s—, yeah. Good.”

* * * * *

In the aftermath of the Quidditch World Cup, Ed realizes he needs to adjust his original plan to complete Truth’s errands as discreetly as possible, because if Death Eaters are still pulling this kind of crap in Riddle’s absence — well, that’s not something Ed can let slide. In any reality.

So he needs to know where he’s willing to draw a line.

Fortunately, no one had died during the attack, otherwise Ed really wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Not that he’s unrealistic enough to imagine he could save everyone, everywhere from dying all the time. But if he’s there and able to stop it from happening, like during the Death Eater attack, but didn’t do anything, he wouldn’t really be the Edward Elric he thought he was.

He probably wouldn’t be the Edward Elric anyone thought he was.

“ _Am I going to risk everything to protect people I’ll never see again?_ ”

There are memories that he passes by on this particular train of thought: the way Ranklebury’s smells when there’s fresh baked bread, the sound of the twins’ gleeful laughter whenever they perfectly execute a prank, the taste of Luna’s homemade blend of tea.

Listening to Neville talk about herbology, watching Blaise struggle through Amestrian pronunciation, laughing at Ginny’s jokes.

Eating meals with Sirius and Remus, playing stupid little games where no one dies and nothing matters.

“ _Fuck me,_ " he groans.

When the time comes, he knows exactly what choice he’s going to make.

* * * * *

The day before the term starts up again, Sirius starts to mope. 

“I can’t believe you’re _both_ leaving me behind,” he complains from his spot on the kitchen floor. He’s laying splayed out on the floorboards like a starfish, with a smattering of biscuits within arm’s reach.

“Stop eating on the floor,” Remus chides.

“And stop eating lying down,” Ed adds.

“You’re both awful,” Sirius complains once more, while cramming yet another biscuit into his mouth.

“Don’t all of the professors have Floos in their offices anyways? You’ll probably see Remus all the time,” Ed says.

“It’s not the same,” Sirius pouts. “What am I supposed to do for the entire day before Moony comes home?”

“Read a book,” Remus suggests.

“Maybe learn to read first,” Ed snorts and promptly gets a biscuit thrown at his head. “Hey!”

Sirius grins, lifting his head up to see the crumbs in Ed’s hair. “You deserve it and you know it.” He flops back down. “Bored!”

“We’re still here,” Remus says. “Why are you bored now?”

“Because I’m thinking about being here alone starting tomorrow and I can already tell I’m going to be BORED!”

“You won’t be alone, you have Kreacher and Winky to keep you company.”

Winky has been a welcome addition to 12 Grimmauld Place, mostly because she seems to put Kreacher in a more tolerable mood and vice versa. She still cries every now and then, but it’s become significantly better than her first night as a guest.

“It’s complicated,” Sirius explains, “to formally take in a house elf. I can technically do it, but I’d need to register with the Ministry and deal with even more paperwork and honestly, I’m not completely sure Crouch would appreciate the sentiment.” He wrinkles his nose. “Better to just let Winky figure out what she’d like to do from here, now that she’s free.”

“Why would he care?” Ed asks. “He just fired her, for something that wasn’t even her fault. He’s an idiot.”

“Yes, but he’s a rather important idiot,” Remus says. “Poor treatment of house elves has caused a few scandals in the last few decades and there’s been an increase in support for proper rights for them, seeing as they didn’t have many before.”

Ed makes a face. “Well, what do they even get from working for wizards in the first place?”

“Their magic,” Remus replies. “Not that they don’t have magic of their own, but it’s much stronger when they have formal ties to a magical place. So, for example, an old established wizarding family most likely lives in a manor or family home that’s been passed down from century to century, and those buildings carry a lot of residual magic, from ages ago. The older the magic, the stronger the elf.”

“What about people like Crouch, who’re assholes? Won’t they just take advantage of them?”

“House elves are contracted laborers, in that they are formally employed through contracts that detail what they can and cannot be asked to do for a given household. Each elf has their own limits and demands, but unfortunately, it’s only the wizarding family who gets to decide when the contract ends and most of the time, the contracts extend to bloodline, not specific wizards.” Remus grimaces. “It’s common practice to punish elves, mostly because wizards realized most contracts don’t account for the human potential to be cruel, since they were made long before such practices became the norm.”

“That’s—, what! That should be a crime.”

Sirius laughs, not out of humor. “Kid, there are so many things that should be a crime in wizarding society that are not. The people in power want to stay in power, and most of the time, that means appeasing the old-fashioned purebloods who don’t want things to change at all.”

“They can’t stay in power forever,” Ed says, clenching a fist. 

“That’s the hope,” Sirius says.

It’s some time later, when Sirius is properly sitting at the kitchen table, that Ed realizes Kreacher could be freed too.

“Why don’t you?” he asks, confused. Even though Sirius doesn’t treat Kreacher unkindly, wouldn’t the elf be happier free to do as he likes?

“Because this is his home, even if he doesn’t like me,” Sirius says. “He’s not allowed to stay here if I end his contract, even if I want to let him. The house won’t allow it.”

“The _house?_ ” Ed repeats.

“The house,” Sirius confirms. “It’s a part of this mess too, whether I like it or not.”

“This is unreal,” Ed says with a scowl. “All of this is bullshit.”

“It is,” Remus says, surprising him. “But wizarding society has never been a progressive one.”

Sometimes Ed forgets that Remus is a werewolf.

He just sees Remus, in his worn sweaters and constant scraps of parchment sticking out of his trouser pockets, who wouldn’t hurt anyone if he could help it.

But most everyone else would see the werewolf in him, would whisper about his potential to hurt a person, would ponder the what-if’s rather than the realities of his person.

And that’s not right at all.

“Then it sounds like we’ll have to change that.”

Remus shakes his head.

“If only,” he says.

“If only,” Sirius repeats, wistfully.

* * * * *

Edward Elric has ~~two~~ three goals while stuck in this magical reality:

  1. The destruction of Tom Riddle’s Horcruxes
  2. The collection of the Deathly Hallows
  3. The downfall of the current Ministry of Magic and with it, the reform of magical laws that let wizards think they can look down on anyone or thing that isn’t a wizard



Simple, right?

* * * * *

The train ride this year is far different from the one the year before.

Ed is happily crammed into a compartment with the rest of the book club — everyone is half-sitting on the person next to them, with Ginny giving up entirely on finding space on the seats and opting for the floor. Neville joins her shortly, Trevor resting on his knee while wearing a tiny knit vest.

“You look quite handsome,” Luna says to the toad.

Trevor croaks.

“Wow, he technically responded,” Fred says, slightly surprised.

“Why wouldn’t he?” Luna blinks owlishly, entirely confused.

“I just–, it–, he’s. He’s just a toad!” Fred accuses, jabbing a finger at the little creature.

“He doesn’t mean it like that,” Neville stage-whispers to Trevor and then proceeds to pat him fondly on the head.

“So?” Luna asks. “Why does that matter?”

“It doesn’t, I, it just took me by surprise, I guess.”

Luna extends her open hand out to the toad, who crawls into it without hesitation, and then holds him right in front of Fred’s nose.

“You should try asking him something!”

“Er, hi… I guess.”

Trevor wriggles out of Luna’s grip, whacks Fred’s forehead with one slimy, webbed foot, and kicks off onto the compartment floor. Fred slaps a hand over his forehead with a tiny scowl.

“You’ve certainly met your match,” Blaise comments, to which Ginny cackles wildly and George bites back a grin. 

“You’re a traitor,” Fred says to his brother. 

“It’s hilarious and I enjoy your misery,” George replies, snorting as he does. 

The rest of the train ride is much the same, filled with amusing conversation and light-hearted recounts of the parts of summer holidays that others weren’t around for; Blaise even volunteers information on how he and his mother eat supper together almost every single night.

“Oh, before I forget, I have something for you, Fullmetal,” Luna says as she digs through her multiple pockets. “I know I put it somewhere, maybe in this one? Ah, here they are!”

She reveals a somewhat familiar object and Fred takes one look at the Spectrespecs before letting out a startled “WOAH!”

The pair Luna offers Ed are an even more bedazzled version of the ones she’d worn that first book club meeting and these ones are a startling shade of hot pink.

Ed’s friends stare at the offending glasses, then stare at Ed.

He really can’t help but start laughing when he notices how badly they hide their excitement — they clearly don’t care if he takes them or not, they just want to see how he’ll respond to them. 

He laughs so hard his stomach hurts and his laughter does nothing but confuse his friends, who were probably anticipating an awkward refusal, knowing he’s never been one to snap at Luna.

But not for long, because Ginny is quick to join in, followed shortly by Neville and the twins. Even Blaise laughs, instead of pretending he’s too cool for things like that.

The only person who doesn’t laugh is Luna, who smiles and holds out the pair for Ed to take.

He accepts them with a wide grin. 

“Thanks, Loony, they’re perfect.”

* * * * *

The gifted Spectrespecs have caused quite the commotion since the train. Word spread about Ed’s new “look” and he’d noticed everyone trying to catch a glimpse of him as he’d found a seat at the end of the Hufflepuff table before the Sorting started. 

He can’t tell if he likes the Spectrespecs because Luna gave them to him or because of the looks other people give him when he does. Probably both if he’s being real honest and he doesn’t see a reason why he shouldn’t be.

The stocky boy to Ed’s left grins at the sight of him. “Love your newest addition,” he says, tapping the bridge of his nose. “Makes you seem more approachable.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t want that, though, would he?” Cedric teases. “Ed couldn’t live like that, with everyone knowing his bark is far worse than his bite.”

“You don’t know me,” Ed sniffs. “Maybe I like the attention.”

That earns him a number of snorts and snickers from his fellow Housemates, who really do seem to have a better opinion of him just from the Spectrespecs alone.

“You’re funnier than I thought you’d be,” a girl comments to his right.

“Thanks,” Ed says sarcastically. “That’s not rude at all.”

“What can I say,” the girl responds with a shrug and a smirk, “badgers have claws.”

They watch the Sorting then, and Ed can’t help himself but to imagine setting the Sorting Hat on fire, just for his own pleasure. It makes him smile in a self-satisfied way, at least until Dumbledore stands up to share a few announcements.

“There will be no Quidditch this year,” he states, to the dismay of most of Hogwarts.

There’s a chorus of shouts, outrage really, that makes Ed roll his eyes.

“You people and your Quidditch,” he grumbles, to which Cedric frowns.

“It’s important!” he tries to insist.

Ed’s cut off from retorting by Dumbledore continuing on with his announcement.

“Instead, we will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament!”

The students begin to whisper amongst themselves.

“What is that,” they ask one another. “What does that mean?”

Dumbledore is happy to explain. Two other schools would be joining them for the remainder of the school year, with the tournament beginning on Halloween, when each school would call forth a single champion to compete in three trials of varying hardships. 

The winner would get a thousand Galleons.

And that’s what gets everyone’s attention.

“It is with great excitement that we are able to reinstate the Triwizard Tournament this year, and it is a great honor that we are able to hold the event here. However, that comes with new practices and new measures to ensure the safety of our participants. But more on that later!”

Dumbledore peers out towards the students, his eyes twinkling. “I look forward to welcoming our guests on Halloween. With that, let us continue to enjoy the good food and the good company.”

This must be what Charlie and Bill were hinting at, just a few days ago.

“A good fit,” Charlie had said. 

Ed banishes the thought immediately.

Everyone’s excited by the prospect of winning a thousand Galleons, but Ed knows better; if he knows wizards and he thinks he does, something is going to go horribly, terribly wrong.

He just knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello, hello!
> 
> thank you all for reading and commenting, leaving kudos, bookmarking, etc!
> 
> this one is ever so slightly shorter than previous chapters, but i thought the next chunk ended oddly in comparison to ending it here :-) thanks for your patience, i know i updated a bit later than expected!
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	15. edward elric and the goblet of fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lol it's the goblet of fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the 13th and happy new year!
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay safe and healthy, y'all!

In spite of the unexpected news regarding the Triwizard Tournament, life at Hogwarts remains entirely predictable, as is evidenced by Snape’s displeasure with Ed’s new glasses during the first potions class of the term.

“Mr. Elric,” he drawls, the ever-present sneer firmly cemented on his face, “must we have a repeat of our shared time together last year?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, _sir_.”

“The spectacles are… unsavory, to say the least.” He sniffs. “The lack of uniform is barely tolerable as it is.”

Ed isn’t ever going to be bullied into wearing a _uniform_ and he’s not about to let Snape bully him into taking off the spectacles either. “That’s unfortunate. I need them to see.”

“Detention, Mr. Elric. Wednesday evening, here in the potions classroom.”

“That’s also unfortunate. I have a standing appointment with Professor McGonagall on Wednesday’s, so I am going to have to request we reschedule for another time, sir. Please give me at least three calendar days’ notice so that I can ensure I don’t have any other commitments at that time.”

It’s all said in an overly polite tone of voice, but the way Snape’s eye twitches isn’t too different from the way Mustang’s used to.

Someone starts coughing behind Ed and the muted snickering of his classmates echo against the dungeon walls.

“Detention for the next three weeks, Mr. Elric. On _Wednesday_.”

Snape begins writing out the syllabus on the chalkboard without another word.

Neville bumps Ed’s knee with his own. “Are you going to be okay? You can’t miss detentions with Professor McGonagall, you know,” he whispers.

“Right,” Ed murmurs back. “But detentions are really the least of my problems.”

“Merlin forbid you actually care about your education,” Neville grumbles as he copies down Snape’s notes. “How is it possible that you have the best scores of anyone at Hogwarts while simultaneously irritating every professor here?”

Ed shrugs, sliding his specs up his nose. “You could say it’s a gift,” he replies.

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it a gift. A curse, _maybe_.” Neville grins slightly.

“Neville, you wound me.”

“My mission in life,” he jokes back.

As they set to work brewing a simple draught, Ed glances over to see the ease with which Neville selects ingredients and prepares them for the cauldron. His hands are steady, and his face is smooth and free of the usual lines of worry and borderline fear that plagued him all of last year.

Neville has never looked so comfortable in potions class before.

Ed grins. 

It really is the little things that make such a big difference.

* * * * *

None of the book club members had previously discussed what kind of social interactions would be considered acceptable once the school year started, particularly in the realm of “Slytherin vs. Everyone Else” kinds of interactions. Over the course of the summer, it wasn’t anything they really thought of as important and it speaks volumes that Ed’s non-Slytherin friends have relaxed considerably in their personal prejudices against their resident snakes. (Or perhaps it’s just Blaise, seeing as they didn’t have the chance to interact with any other Slytherins.)

But the combined lack of discussion and the added normalcy of sitting with and interacting with Blaise is precisely why Ed and Luna casually seat themselves right across from him, Draco, Vincent, Gregory and Pansy during lunch on the first day of term, as if nothing could be more natural.

“I’m starved,” Ed says, going over the lunch time options. “Where’s the rolls?”

“Eat some vegetables, won’t you?” Blaise drawls, all while handing over the bread basket anyways.

Ed sticks out his tongue while Luna laughs.

She starts to speak to Blaise. “Did you want—”

“What do you think you’re _doing_?” Pansy asks, cutting her off and raising an eyebrow at the pair.

It’d be impossible to notice the way the Great Hall goes quiet, every eye on them, every ear straining to hear the expected confrontation that is surely about to happen.

The atmosphere is tense and awkward, in the specific way that only pending teenage drama can be.

Meanwhile, Vincent hasn’t bothered to stop eating, looking mostly unbothered by the interruption, while Gregory looks up to gape at the audacity of the uninvited guests. Pansy is starting to scowl and Draco doesn’t look particularly happy either.

But there’s something incredibly nervous about the way Draco’s eyes roam over Ed’s face, his expression carefully crafted into a disapproving frown. His fingers curl tightly around his silverware, to the point his knuckles turn white.

He’s certain the other boy remembers the last time they’d spoken, almost an entire year before.

Blaise ignores both of his fellow Slytherins in favor of starting a conversation with Luna. “Are you in Muggle Studies again this year?”

“Of course,” Luna smiles. “I was just thinking the same thing. Did you want the book list?”

“Do you really need to ask,” Blaise says in reply. He’s almost smiling.

It’s the same way Blaise and Luna have chatted a thousand times this past summer, the same way Blaise has seamlessly adjusted to the experience of friendship with every member of the book club.

“What kind of book lists?” Ed asks. 

“Muggle literature,” Luna replies.

Well, that’s surprising. Ed had only ever heard from Muggle-born wizards that Charity Burbage tried to focus on Muggle invention in science and despite her good intentions, fell short on accurately passing on information.

(“She’s a little confused, but she’s got spirit,” a sixth-year Hufflepuff had mentioned.)

He almost forgets Pansy and Draco and Gregory and Vincent are even there until Pansy decides to voice her displeasure once more. 

“I repeat, _what_ do you think you’re _doing_?” she says a little louder, a little more shrill, all while leaning over Draco to slam a nicely manicured hand in front of Blaise’s plate.

The surrounding tableware rattles ever so slightly. 

Ed meets her glare with one of his own. 

“Eating,” he retorts.

“Actually, they’re loitering,” Blaise explains to Pansy, before turning to Ed, “but if you’d grab a plate, dear, you’re welcome to join us for lunch. I’m afraid you’ll actually have to use some of those ‘manners’ you’ve told us you had.”

Ed makes a noise of disagreement, using his hand to grab a chicken wing off of Blaise’s plate in a show of childish disobedience.

Draco finally opens his mouth, the beginning of a sneer spreading on his face, when he’s interrupted by Ginny, who slides onto the bench next to Blaise with the same nonchalance as Ed and Luna before her.

“We’re still meeting then?” Ginny asks, grabbing a plate for herself. “I suppose this is as close to book club as we’re going to get during the term.”

“Oh, you’re definitely _not_ allowed here, _Weasley_ ,” Pansy sneers. She curls her hands over Draco’s upper arm. “Draco, _do_ something!”

“All of you need to leave,” Draco snaps, roughly freeing himself of Pansy’s grip. “And you—” he turns to Blaise “—need to rethink where your loyalties lie.”

“Loyalties?” Ed repeats skeptically. “It’s just lunch, Draco. Get over yourself.”

“Yeah, get over yourself,” Ginny says, snorting.

“Did he just–, he just called you _Draco_ ,” Gregory says awkwardly. 

That gets Vincent to stop eating.

Pansy’s previous annoyance at the sudden intrusion is completely ignored, made clear to her by the way the book club members settle into their seats, undeterred by their overly hostile behavior.

The four Slytherins don’t know what to do with themselves.

Moving away means admitting public defeat.

Letting the book club members stay means granting (reluctant) permission.

Pansy, Gregory, and Vincent turn to Draco, their de facto leader.

Ed watches him too.

And Draco takes one look at the words Ed mouths before grimacing and turning back to his untouched lunch.

Now, even Pansy is gaping, but not at the book club members.

They’re all staring at Draco, who’s determined to ignore all eye contact, as if his life depends on it, and forget the presence of the non-Slytherins as soon as possible.

“Dr–, Draco?” Pansy says, uneasily.

“What,” he replies, voice flat.

“Aren’t you–, er, well, aren’t you going to, to do something?” she asks.

“What’s there to do,” Draco answers between clenched teeth. “It’s just lunch.”

The three Slytherins glance at each other helplessly before hesitantly turning their attention to finishing their own meals. The book club members continue to chat as if nothing significant has occurred, although something definitely has.

It’s like its own subtle magic, the first step into truly “enemy” territory. Winning over one Slytherin isn’t too difficult, but winning over all of them?

It’s going to take a while, that’s already predestined.

But it’s not impossible.

Ed and his friends have shown that, just by sitting at a different table.

It’s a silent message for everyone: we’re not that different in the end.

Slowly, the whispers amongst the other Houses grow, turning back into the typical chatter associated with Hogwarts meals.

“What did you say to him?” Luna murmurs later, when Blaise and Ginny are too busy arguing about their predictions for the upcoming Triwizard Tournament to notice.

“Nothing much,” Ed says back. “Just a reminder.”

He catches a glimpse of the way Draco’s shoulders come up to his ears, the tight line of his mouth as he speaks to Pansy and Gregory, who still can’t get over what just happened. Draco’s clearly upset with the way things turned out, but he’d still listened to Ed’s words.

 _Asshole move_ , he’d mouthed and watched as the other boy turned impossibly pale.

That must count for something, right?

 _He’s changing too,_ Ed thinks. _He’s more… considerate. Considerate, that’s what it is._

Ed looks at Luna again and almost smiles as he remembers what she’d said about Blaise last school year. “Maybe it’s spring now for Draco too.”

“Maybe.” She laughs slightly, shaking her head as she does. “It’s like I said. Only you could make this happen.”

* * * * *

It’s near impossible for Ed to think of Remus as “Professor Lupin” once more, watching him putter around the classroom with the kind of awkwardness he can guess comes from the desire to not only be an effective teacher, but a well-liked one.

He can’t help but snort loudly when Remus tries to start with a joke and stumbles through it, earning a familiar look of tired acceptance and fondness from the man.

Not that anyone else can see it as anything other than annoyance.

And the look Harry, Ron, and Hermione throw his way is pure venom.

“Looks like Elric’s a menace no matter what classroom he’s in,” one Slytherin snickers.

“I’m quite happy to be here again,” Remus says, ignoring all of them. “And I look forward to working with you all this year as well.”

A few of the students clap, one person even lets out a loud cheer.

With a flick of his wand, Remus distributes parchment to each student, written out in a tidy hand.

“These will be the topics we cover this year. I’ve chosen subjects I imagine will be useful when taking your OWLs during fifth year, and I can only say now that other professors will most likely do the same.” He smiles mischievously. “That doesn’t mean we won’t have our fun where we can.”

Remus begins to introduce a number of simple spells that they’ll be incorporating into a slightly advanced game of tag. They incorporate magical inconveniences, much like the ones Remus performed on Ed and Sirius throughout the summer in an attempt to teach them a lesson, which they ultimately didn’t ever learn.

“To practice your aim, as well as work on your reaction time,” he says innocently.

Ed knows Remus too well to know that he just wants to have a laugh at his students’ expense.

Tagging other students with spells while simultaneously dodging in an every-person-for-themselves free-for-all is damn hard, experienced soldier or not. Especially when said students have terrible aim and manage to tag people they aren’t aiming for to begin with.

It’s fun though, and a practical exercise for wizards of their skill level, with no terrible consequences.

“This is the best class ever,” one Gryffindor says.

“You mean Lupin is the best professor ever,” a Ravenclaw corrects.

By the end of their first class, Ed can say that Remus has effectively won everyone over, even the Slytherins who seemed hellbent on disliking him last year and he can’t help but feel a surge of pride on Remus’ behalf.

As the other students leave, Ed lingers behind.

“They like you, you know,” he comments, before grinning widely.

The werewolf smiles back, thoroughly pleased with the results of his first lesson. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“Just don’t let it get to your head,” Ed teases, waving goodbye. “I’ll see you later.”

Remus casts one last spell, tagging the back of Ed’s jacket with a bright splotch of vomit green paint as revenge.

“Fuck!”

* * * * *

He doesn’t know if he should be sending Sirius letters.

He knows he _can_.

And he knows Harry has and does and he also knows Remus probably passes on what little information he has about him whenever he goes back to Grimmauld Place.

But he isn’t fully sure if he should inform the man directly.

He’s never had to, after all. 

Back in Amestris, it had been a pointless endeavor to send updates to Al or Winry or Granny, since Al was always by his side and Winry and Granny never needed anything more than the occasional automail check-up to confirm that he was alive and in three pieces — no more, no less.

The year prior, when Ed and Sirius had first “met”, there had been no reason to periodically update a stranger (and at the time, criminal) on the events in his life, mundane as they usually are during the school year, especially when Ed and Sirius were living in the same building.

But now, it’s not like Sirius is still a random stranger that Ed kidnapped out of the woods. He’s essentially family at this point, even if that’s difficult for Ed to believe at times.

“You know, Sirius would appreciate hearing from you,” Remus mentions offhand, right after the end of Ed’s DADA class.

They’ve mostly stuck to exchanging brief words after class or following mealtimes, since neither of them know how to explain their close relationship to anyone who should happen across them interacting normally. Madame Pomfrey knows, but she isn’t really the type to volunteer that kind of private information.

Ed shrugs. “It’s not like you can’t tell him for me.”

Remus bites his tongue and leaves it at that, but Ed thinks about it on and off, wonders if Sirius would like to get letters from him or if he’d find it weird and off-putting.

Maybe he’s too in his head about this.

He hesitates in a way he usually wouldn’t, wavering between writing and not, but always falling shy of actually doing it.

What ends up being most surprising is that it isn’t Remus who ultimately pushes him to write.

It’s Harry.

“Why aren’t you writing to Sirius?” he demands one morning, invading Ed’s personal space shortly after following him out of the Great Hall.

“Nice to see you too,” Ed replies, leaning away from the other boy. “What were you saying?”

Harry scowls. “Sirius. Why aren’t you writing to him?”

It’s Ed’s turn to scowl. “That’s none of your fucking business, that’s what it is.”

“It is my business,” Harry insists. “He’s asking about you now in _my_ letters.”

Ed jerks his head back. “What? Why?”

“... he seems to think we’re friends,” Harry mutters, running his hand through his already messy hair.

_What in the name of Truth gave Sirius that impression?_

“Did you correct him on that?”

Harry just shoots Ed a sullen look before saying something half-hearted about wanting to get along. 

Ed ignores it. If Harry wants to pretend they’re friends in front of his godfather, that’s his choice. 

Now, if he actually wants to get along, Ed will consider it when the other boy doesn’t so clearly resent him.

“It’s not like you and Remus aren’t constantly sending him letters or talking to him anyhow, he has plenty of company, in my opinion.” Ed shrugs and then turns as if to leave.

Harry reaches out to grab him, but Ed moves his arm away to avoid it.

“What now?” Ed asks over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. 

“Just–, will you _please_ —,” Harry stops short, making a noise of frustration as he does. “Are you honestly that _thick_? He clearly misses you. Write to him!” Harry snaps before stalking off, fuming.

Ed stares after him, genuinely confused by the entire exchange. “...alright, I guess?” He shakes his head. “What the hell just happened.” 

Still, Sirius must want to hear from him if he’s capable of indirectly coercing Harry into talking to Ed.

Right?

He drafts his first letter that night, brief and to the point: he’s healthy, attending classes, and spending time with friends. Looking it over, he deems it good enough for a first attempt, even if it reads more like a military order than a personal letter, and he sends it out with a school owl early in the morning.

He gets a response by lunch. 

_Took you long enough, brat._

_Send more soon._

He shouldn’t feel so pleased, he thinks, but he can't stop himself from carefully saving the letter inside a side compartment of his trunk and drafting the next one that very evening. 

* * * * *

Professor McGonagall is waiting for him in the same classroom that he’s served detention in for the entirety of last year.

 _A home,_ Ed muses. _I could probably consider it one at this point._

“Mr. Elric,” she sighs, giving him a stern once-over. “Back again.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies dutifully.

“And you are quite certain you’d like to continue in this manner?” she asks, watching him take a seat in the front row.

He hadn’t even bothered showing up for Transfiguration this year. She’d tracked him down in the library and practically dragged him out by the ear to scold him for his truancy.

“I’m very sure.”

She stares at him. “You’ve never explained your particular aversion to transfiguration. It’s an incredibly useful magic, I hope you know.”

Could it really be called an aversion? 

_Meestuh… let’s play, Meestuh…_

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to explain it, ma’am,” he says softly. “But it’s against my principles, even if it isn’t against yours.”

She stares a little longer, before setting another thick transfiguration tome in front of him. “Then you know what to do.”

He gets to work transcribing the text, not realizing McGonagall is watching him write with something akin to curiosity on her face.

Minerva had listened to Albus’ observations and concerns regarding the Elric boy all of last year and had reached her own conclusions, padded by the remarks of other staff members.

They’d been alarmed, perhaps, in the very beginning; genuinely concerned that the boy was far too volatile and bad-tempered for a school setting.

But then he’d taken them all by surprise: befriending students from different Houses, standing up for others regardless of his personal feelings, and maintaining an exemplary academic record, despite having no formal education to speak of.

And he’s still full of surprises, one year later.

Minerva believes Edward is dedicated to his convictions, going to extremes to uphold them.

Which would be alarming if he were following Tom Riddle’s footsteps, but Edward pretty clearly isn’t.

He’s doing something, she thinks, something incredibly subtle and simultaneously public.

Remus had informed her that Edward had independently discovered his status as a werewolf, but the boy hadn’t ever thought to bring it up to the staff as a concern or disclose the revelation to the student body. And as far as Minerva can tell, he’s fairly close to Remus now as well, in spite of the knowledge of his condition, which is unusual for most magical people, Muggle-born or not.

And now with the Slytherins.

It’d been a rather large shock to everyone amongst the staff to see Edward’s group of merry misfits spending time amongst the Slytherins, perhaps most of all to Severus and Albus. 

Severus never bothers to encourage inter-House relations because he knows first-hand the kind of barriers his students face, both internally and externally. 

Minerva always thought it would do Severus good to teach his students acceptance, no matter how difficult the task may be. He barely manages to impress tolerance upon them, and there is only so much the rest of the staff is able to do when he is in charge of both punishment and reward of the students in Slytherin House.

She imagines he’d be more willing if he weren’t still so affected by Lily Evans and her untimely death, thirteen years later.

“Edward,” she finds herself saying, before she fully decides if she’d like to do this or not.

The boy looks up at her. “Ma’am?”

She purses her lips. “What do you think of the Slytherins?” she asks.

It might just be the first time she’s ever seen him look so surprised.

“May I ask why you’re choosing to ask me?”

“It’d be difficult not to notice your inability to sit at the right table each meal,” she answers ruefully.

There’s a delighted glint in his eye when she says it, but Edward doesn’t make any discernable facial expression.

“They’re alright,” he says, the most casual he’s ever been with her. “They could use a few friends outside of their own House to teach them they aren’t as great as they think are.” He shrugs, starting to scribble down the transfiguration text once more. “We all need friends who push us to be better.”

Minerva hides a smile at that.

It would seem that Albus is worried for nothing — she has full confidence young Mr. Elric is on precisely the right path.

* * * * *

Ed doesn’t know if it’s his interaction with his friends or it’s the bedazzled, pink Spectrespecs he wears more often than not or if it’s the way Cedric manages to infect his fellow Hufflepuffs with his own special brand of friendliness, but Ed is having better luck getting along with his Housemates than he could have ever imagined the year before.

Even Justin, who’d been the most reluctant to tolerate his presence in the room last year, has taken to poking harmless fun at Ed’s “bizarre” habits (like the gloves), all while beaming at him with a shit-eating grin.

His roommates also start asking Ed for help with a few subjects, much to his surprise, but he’s happy to help where he can. 

“That’s too complicated,” Archie usually complains, in relation to his now long-winded technical explanations of magic.

“It’s in the book,” Ed will insist. “You’d know if you ever read.”

They team up against him and usually throw balled up scraps of parchment shortly after that, but he always dodges, leaving them irritated twice as much as before.

The look on Sprout’s face on the days he actually eats with members of his House makes him feel like a bashful child with an overly enthusiastic and proud parent, but he imagines if he had a child even half as difficult as he is, he’d probably feel the same way. 

“They’ve finally figured out you only look terrifying,” Cedric tells him. 

Ed wrinkles his nose. “You’re implying I’m _not_ terrifying.”

“Well, you aren’t,” Cedric laughs in reply. 

“I take an incredible amount of offense at that, I’ll have you know,” Ed mutters. 

“Get used to it, Elric,” someone says, elbowing him. “You don’t scare us anymore.”

“Wasn’t planning on trying,” Ed responds dryly. “Clearly I’ve given up on having a reputation.”

That startles a laugh from every single member of his House who is within earshot. 

“Ed, you’re a laugh,” Zach wheezes from across the table. “Everything you do gives you a reputation.”

“Not for lack of trying,” Ed points out. “You guys are the ones talking shit.”

Justin shrugs. “You’re the most interesting thing to happen since Potter joined Hogwarts.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “You guys need better time management. Maybe if you’d stop wasting all your free time watching me and start reading the textbooks for once, you’d finally understand my explanations.”

“What are we, Ravenclaws?” Ernie snorts.

“Judging by your charms essay, clearly not,” Ed retorts, which earns him a spoonful of mashed potatoes to the _face_.

“Alright, you _started_ it,” he warns, before launching a number of peas at the boy.

Ernie technically starts the food fight, even though everyone later agrees that _the Hufflepuff_ definitely initiated it. (Even though they’re all Hufflepuffs.)

Only when Sprout interferes do they all settle down, but if her smile is any indication, she’s not too upset with them in the end for the ruckus they’ve caused.

* * * * *

Pansy and Theodore (who was absent on the first intrusion, but is very much present for the subsequent visits) are astounded by Draco’s continued reluctance to banish the intruders from the Slytherin table each mealtime. (The rest of Slytherin is too, but they aren’t “allowed” to question the decisions of Draco Malfoy.)

(The first time Neville sits with the rest of his friends next to the Slytherins, Theodore can’t handle it.

“You’re going to let _Longbottom_ , of all people, sit at _our_ table?”

“I’m not _letting_ anyone do anything,” Draco sniffs. 

When Theodore simply stares before gesturing towards the book club members chatting about them, Draco snaps, “Will you _just_ shut up, Nott? They’re eating. It’s _fine._ ”)

Vincent, on the other hand, slowly gets dragged into conversation with them, especially when they have Blaise bridging the gap in their acquaintance for them.

Gregory only ever looks somewhat terrified, despite his attempt at appearing menacing, glancing every so often with wide eyes between Vincent and Draco.

At this point, there’s been a growing habit amongst the book club members of mingling with the other House tables, although they tend to settle most frequently at the Slytherin table. 

In turn, it’d be a lie to say the Slytherins aren’t getting accustomed to the intrusion by now, especially because the book club members regularly try to include the other students, not just Vincent.

The twins are surprisingly the most active about it, constantly cracking jokes and looking to the other Slytherins for some sort of reaction. Even Theodore and Pansy can’t help but stifle a laugh on occasion, to which Fred and George exchange proud looks and bump fists.

The rest of the book club take it easy in their approach, throwing random questions from time to time to one of the Slytherins, looking to them expectantly for some sort of response.

Which they can’t help but give, when a bunch of people are staring at them patiently.

It’s not the end result for inter-House unity that Ed is still hoping for, but he’s incredibly proud of his friends’ willingness to even _try_ something that they’d considered unfathomable a year before.

And despite not knowing them well, he’s pretty damn proud of the Slytherins for even being as tolerant and receptive as they are, especially knowing the kind of backgrounds most of them have. 

One week in, Gregory follows in Vincent’s footsteps and rather eagerly participates in conversations with Ed and his friends.

A few days later, Draco gives up entirely on whatever facade he was attempting and willingly joins discussions, offering his opinions as if they were the valued words of an expert, rather than those of an inexperienced yet proud fourteen-year-old kid. 

It takes two and a half weeks of persistent badgering before Pansy begins to meet George’s sarcastic comments with her own snarky retorts. 

Theodore holds out the longest, but even he starts to unconsciously accept the foreign presence, mellowing out enough to begrudgingly acknowledge that the book club members are there. 

But apparently, that’s normal, as Theodore is antagonistic by nature and is prickly and hard to get along with even on good days. That’s not just to the book club members, Blaise informs them. He has an interesting relationship with the rest of the Slytherin group, since he speaks his mind and makes cruel jokes without much thought of the consequences.

“You get used to it,” Blaise says. “He just likes getting under people’s skin.”

There isn’t really much they can do with that other than tolerate his presence and accept that not everyone gets along.

In the span of a month, the Slytherins are comfortable enough partaking in conversation with the book club that Ed can barely believe how quickly they came around. He’d expected more resistance, but when talking to them and even joking around with them, he gets the impression that the Slytherins are a rather lonely bunch and are actually pretty desperate to be well-liked, despite the way they act.

They may have each other to fall back on, but it’s mostly out of necessity, rather than by choice. 

Given the chance to interact with others, they’re still kids, kids who are hopeful and immature and ever-changing, just like the rest of them.

And that’s the biggest thing about what Ed’s doing, about what his friends are doing now too: they’re reminding everyone, including themselves, that when it comes down to it, the Slytherins are people just like them and they’re more similar than they are different.

They’re honestly nowhere near as terrible as their reputation would suggest.

Although, they’re probably holding back, all told. It’s not like Ed is ignoring the reality of their past, pretending they haven’t said cruel and vicious things to Muggle-born students for no reason other than for a sense of superiority.

Ed hasn’t seen it happen firsthand, but he’s willing to say he believes that the Slytherins can collectively turn a new leaf when offered the opportunity to do so.

The first _real_ opportunity to do so, ever since Riddle fucked it all up for them.

And if not, he’s got a lot to say about that to them too.

But that’s more stuff for future Ed to worry about — for now, he’s trying to focus solely on the present.

And that mostly involves getting the Slytherins acclimated enough that they are willing to openly associate with the book club members outside of mealtimes, which is the only time when they don’t have much say in the matter.

In classes, around the castle, during breaks — that’s a whole other story.

Ed has no expectations of his friends to insert themselves into the Slytherins’ lives outside of meals and doesn’t bother to request that they do so.

But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to do it himself.

He’s never been social in the usual sense, but he’s confident in every decision he makes and unwavering in determination. If “building bridges” requires him to actually talk to people, so be it.

Ed starts initiating conversations with not only Draco and his posse during classes, but also with pretty much any Slytherin in the general vicinity of his seat, because he figures he might as well begin working the magic of his obstinacy on the rest of Slytherin as well.

They’re clearly very weirded out by it, if their furrowed brows and wide eyes and gaping mouths are any indication, and Ed is most definitely not helped out by his own reputation (which just gets more and more unbelievable without his having done anything).

But he keeps at it, making casual conversation before they even realize they’re chatting amicably with a total non-Slytherin stranger.

The first time Draco willingly offers to be Ed’s partner in Defense is inconceivable by Hogwarts’ standards, even if Draco pretends it’s because he’s _clearly_ superior and simply offering his _much needed_ assistance to Ed. 

Remus gives Ed a curious look, which Ed waves off with a mouthed “later”.

It’s working, though — slowly, but surely — and he can see the impact it has on the other students when they see the Slytherins interacting with him like they’re normal kids.

Because they are, in fact, normal kids.

* * * * *

October 3rd comes around faster than Ed had thought it would, despite being the same exact day each year, and this time, he runs into what he thought would be an unheard of issue for a stranger walking through a different reality: he is constantly surrounded by people who are concerned for his physical and mental well-being.

His original plan would be to wallow in the memories of his past failures, let the smell of smoke practically choke him, but it’s pretty difficult to do that when his friends can instantly read the way his mood dips as the day approaches.

It’s just around the corner.

During potions four days before the third, Ed makes a number of mistakes that Neville catches before he can irrevocably ruin their assignment for the day.

“Are you feeling alright?” Neville asks as they walk out of potions. 

“Fine,” Ed lies and then winces. He doesn’t want to be like this, but it’s practically a habit at this point. It’s like the words he wants to say are caught in his throat — he can feel them each time he swallows.

Neville shoots him a look before shaking it off. “That was a bad question,” he says, more to himself than Ed. “How ‘bout this. Ed, is there anything you want to talk about? You’re not looking… the best.”

Ed snorts at that. “Didn’t think you’d be one to care about my looks.”

The other boy actually rolls his eyes this time. “Are you going to answer my question or not? Because I’ll back off if you want me to, but if you want to talk about it, I’m, well, this is me offering.”

“I’m going to answer,” Ed says, focusing on putting one foot in front of the next. “I’m just… I’m trying–, I want to find the right words.”

Neville nods. “I get that. Take your time.”

They walk in companionable silence, a flood of students weaving their ways through the hallways and up and down the stairs. It feels oddly quiet despite the rowdiness in the halls, the spontaneous shout and thrum of magic surrounding them. 

Right at the base of the staircase Neville takes to the Gryffindor tower, Ed speaks up. 

“October 3rd…,” he starts off. “It’s, uh, it’s a hard day. For me.” He isn’t sure if he should say more than that. It feels like it should already be enough, giving that much of himself up. 

_Here,_ he wants to add. _It’s hard for me here. It’s a different day when I’m with Al._

For the first time in a long time, he sticks his hand into his pocket and fingers the design on his State Alchemist watch. 

He hasn’t looked at it in a while. 

But he’s never forgotten. 

He never will. 

Neville softens immediately. “Oh. Oh, I see. Do you need anything?”

Ed’s just grateful Neville didn’t immediately follow up with, “Are you okay?”

“I think, well. Honestly, I’m pretty shit at pretending I’m not–, that I’m fine when I’m like… this,” he says, gesturing to all of himself. “Do you think you could just tell the others for me? I don’t really think–, no, wait. I don’t really _want_ to keep explaining.”

Neville looks taken back. “You’re–, and you’re okay with that?”

Ed rubs his eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, Neville, I’m okay with it. I don’t want to worry you guys. And I’ll be fine. I swear. Just… it’d be better if you all knew, and I don’t really have it in me right now to keep bringing it up and keep talking about it. Definitely not as a group. You know what I mean?”

Neville nods. “Yeah. I get it.” He smiles a bit sadly. “Me too, you know?”

Ed remembers the time Neville tried to explain whatever had happened to his parents and nods. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

“I’ll talk to them soon, alright?”

“Thanks, Neville. I mean it.”

“Anytime, Ed.”

* * * * *

October 3rd is not as depressing as Ed had thought it would be, mitigated by his friends checking in on him without being overbearing.

Thank goodness for Neville, who apparently got the message across without incurring any more worry from the rest of the group.

They give him the perfect amount of space, never hovering too long when he appears too overwhelmed to handle company. He’s definitely spacing out throughout the day, so focused on his own thoughts that he almost sets his books on fire during charms, much to the delight of Seamus Finnigan, who’s widely regarded for his ability to set anything aflame with even the simplest of spells.

He thinks of Al most of the time, of the way he unilaterally stopped both of their lives from moving forward.

Truth had said Al would never find out.

_Return me to the moment I left, they’d said._

But that doesn’t stop Ed from feeling guilty, from thinking obsessively about the fact that he had made such a huge decision without Al’s input.

That’s kind of what got them into this situation in the first place. Ed, making the executive decision to revive their dead mother, and Al, being the best brother imaginable, going along with all of Ed’s whims.

That’s how it’s always been. Ed, dragging Al into all of his messes.

Ed still carries Neville’s subvenire in his pocket, regularly takes it out in private moments to look at the unburdened smile on Al’s face, back when they truly were children.

He wants that for Al, wants it so terribly he’d give anything for it. 

Another arm, another leg, so be it.

He’d give all he’s got.

* * * * *

There is a notice posted around Hogwarts that the two delegations competing in the Triwizard Tournament are arriving on the 30th, and the tournament itself will begin shortly after.

It’s George who explains a little about the schools that are attending to Ed, while Fred is busy scheming for a tournament they know nothing about.

“Beauxbatons is a really well-known school in France,” George says. “Super fancy, super posh, you get the idea.”

“What about the other one?”

“Oh, Durmstrang. They’re super secretive about their location, they are, so all we really know is that it’s somewhere up north, somewhere really cold.” George leans in, beckoning Ed closer. “I’ve also heard they’re way up north, because they need a lot of privacy. Like, they have… a reputation of sorts, that’s what most people say, I mean. A reputation towards the Dark Arts,” he says quietly.

Ed frowns at that. Is that the same kind of reputation that members of Slytherin House have, merely from association? 

Or is it something to genuinely be concerned about?

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it,” George qualifies, reading Ed’s thoughts. He ruffles Ed’s hair. “It is, after all, mostly a rumor.”

Ed doesn’t miss the way George seems to doubt his own words, but he can’t bring himself to call him out on it.

“Let’s talk about the prize, this is boring!” Fred interrupts. “Think of what a person could _do_ with a thousand Galleons! It’s, well, it’s unthinkable!”

“How are we supposed to talk about something unthinkable,” Ed answers.

“You’re not trying hard enough,” George laughs.

“Think harder!” Fred adds.

“You’re insufferable,” Ed groans.

“ _You’re_ insufferable,” Fred retorts.

“Are you hoping to join?” George asks, interrupting the bickering.

“No way,” Ed says immediately. “Who knows what kind of wizard nonsense is going to be involved in this competition.”

Fred snorts. “Only you would call it ‘wizard nonsense’ when you _are_ a wizard.”

“It _is_ wizard nonsense!” Ed huffs indignantly. “Some of the shit that happens in this school alone is enough to send me off the deep end. It’s a scientific nightmare.”

“Science is pretty barmy too, though,” George says. “And we only ever talked about electricity all summer.”

Ed shakes his head. “Science is logic, magic is nonsense.”

“Magic is magic,” George laughs.

“You’re really not going to try out?” Fred asks again.

“Nope,” Ed says. “No way in hell.”

“Have it your way,” the twins both say, before giving each other delighted smiles and high-fiving at the timing.

“Why do you guys even want to do it? Didn’t you make a crapload of Galleons after the World Cup?”

Fred scowls and George grimaces before stopping himself.

“It’s always nice to have more money,” George says vaguely.

Fred is still making a face. “Doesn’t help that we were bloody _robbed_ , either,” he mutters.

“What? You were robbed?” Ed asks, taken back.

The twins look at one another — Fred with insistence, George eventually with resignation — before George explains.

“Bagman gave us Leprechaun gold,” he says with a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “Fool’s gold. It disappears eventually.”

It’s Ed’s turn to scowl. “What the fuck? That must be illegal. Did he even give back your original bet? Like the original money you placed on the bet.”

“No,” Fred says sullenly. “We’re trying to blackmail him now.”

“And obviously that’s going great, as you can tell by our penniless state.” George sighs.

“He’ll come around,” Fred says.

“Sure he will,” George replies, sarcastically.

Ed furrows his brow. “Do you need money, like right now?”

Both of the Weasleys shake their head. 

“Not from you,” Fred says.

“And don’t even think about it,” George adds. “We’ll find out.”

“You know this could easily be resolved if you just accepted my help?”

“Don’t care.” Fred throws up his arms. “Maybe we just like to blackmail people.”

“Now that, I can believe.”

Ed lets them change the subject, but he keeps going back to the admission in his head. He knows the twins were investing the majority of their funds into creating their own pranks and he can only imagine the kind of impact losing all of their earnings to Bagman could have.

“I’ll help you, if you want it. Just let me know, okay?”

The twins flash identical grins at him. “Okay.”

* * * * *

Ed has two new things to add to his list of Wizard Transportation Ideas from Hell: a boat that moves underwater and a bigger-on-the-inside carriage pulled by flying, flesh-eating horses.

“ _Can there not be one normal fucking way to get from one place to another_ ,” Ed mutters as he eyes the approach of the two competing schools.

“Stop swearing,” Blaise scolds him. “ _Shut the fuck up._ ”

Ed almost laughs in spite of himself.

All of Hogwarts has been decorated to accommodate their guests and shortly following the arrival of the boat and the carriage, the students are ushered inside to the Great Hall, also tastefully decorated. There is a large ornate box placed in the front of the room, right in the center.

It’s something of a show, watching the two schools enter the building.

Beauxbaton flits into the Great Hall with graceful, smooth movements, almost as if they’re dancing. Their uniforms are pale blue and flutter about them as they move, giving them the impression of wings where there aren’t any. They are accompanied by the biggest human Ed has ever seen, taller and wider than even Hagrid.

Durmstrang is entirely the opposite: all marching and harsh chanting and stiff, uniform movements. They’re dressed in furs and other animal skins and carry large walking sticks.

And with their entrance, the Hogwarts students break out into whispers.

“It’s Krum!” they say excitedly. “That’s Viktor Krum.”

“Who’s Krum?” Ed asks, confused. He sounds vaguely familiar.

Cedric looks at him in disdain. “How did you manage to forget! Krum, the Seeker for the Bulgarian national team.”

Right, Quidditch again, even when there is no Quidditch this year.

“Forgot,” Ed says sheepishly, with a shrug.

Cedric just shakes his head and turns his attention back to the visitors.

Dumbledore welcomes them with a speech that Ed doesn’t listen to and then soon, they’re eating. The members of Durmstrang sit with the Slytherin students and those from Beauxbatons sit amongst the Ravenclaws.

For all that it is the Welcome Feast, everything is relatively routine.

At least, until the end, when Dumbledore and the other two Headmasters, Igor Karkaroff and Madame Maxine, stand up from their table and approach the box in the front, in order to begin formal explanations of what is to come.

“Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman are here from the Ministry of Magic, to facilitate the Tournament,” Dumbledore says, gesturing towards the two men with a sweep of his arm. “And they will be serving as judges, as they also helped organize the tournament.”

There’s a polite round of applause from the students.

Ed narrows his eyes. 

Bagman, like the man who gave the twins Leprechaun gold. 

Dumbledore continues. 

“Champions will be chosen by an ancient, enchanted artefact,” he says. 

He taps his wand to the box that’s been waiting since before the meal. 

The box begins to melt away, revealing a giant, crudely carved wooden goblet. Within the cup itself, bright flames flicker playfully, unnaturally blue.

“It’s meant to be an impartial judge of character,” Dumbledore says.

He proceeds to explain that those who wish to compete in the Tournament must write their names and place the paper inside the Goblet. Tomorrow evening, on Halloween, the Goblet will choose a worthy champion for each delegation to participate in three potentially deadly tasks.

Ed does not take his use of “potentially deadly” lightly.

“Due to the dangers that are associated with the Tournament, the Ministry has decided you must be seventeen years of age to compete.”

Even from the Hufflepuff table, Ed can hear the way Fred shouts, although he’s not alone in doing so. There are students from every corner of the Great Hall declaring it an injustice that they are unable to participate in the Wizard Murder Games™ because they are simply too young.

Ed’s just relieved that the adults in charge of this situation were smart enough to put an age limit at all.

At least the students choosing to get involved have almost completed all of their wizarding education and are technically legal adults.

That’s the bare minimum, in Ed’s opinion, but it’s a lot more than he thought there would be.

* * * * *

There’s an Age Line drawn around the Goblet of Fire.

Supposedly, the suspended line of glimmering white magic will reject applicants younger than seventeen. Dumbledore drew it himself, so most of the student body is unwilling to tempt fate.

Fred and George Weasley aren’t really like most of the student body.

“We’re almost seventeen,” Fred tells Ed. “Just a few months shy. It’d be an outrage if they didn’t let us at least put our names in.”

“Correction, you’re sixteen,” Ed says back. “This is a terrible idea. You could die.”

“Not likely,” George says. “Dumbledore doesn’t seem like the kind of bloke to mortally wound underage wizards.”

“Not the Age Line, the fucking Tournament. Also, you just admitted you’re both underage wizards.”

“When?” Fred says, feigning innocence. “I didn’t hear it.”

“And I didn’t say it.” George grins.

“This is going to be a trainwreck and a half,” Ed says, watching them approach the Goblet.

There are other students in the Great Hall, lingering during breaks to see who dares to put their name in. Apparently Krum had already put his name in, first thing in the morning, and everyone is certain he’ll be the Durmstrang champion.

Fred and George have concocted a potion overnight that is supposed to trick the Age Line into thinking they’re a few months older, when they’ll actually be seventeen.

Ed has run out of ways to express that this potion is bound to fail, especially considering just who drew the line in the first place.

But he supposes, watching them toast their vials before downing their potions, the twins wouldn’t be the twins if they were to sit down and take disagreeable news without complaint.

All of the students are watching now, although nothing visibly changes about the twins.

“I think I’m a bit taller,” Fred says to George.

“Sure you do,” George snorts. “You ready?”

“Ready as ever.” Fred grins. “On three!”

“One,” Fred says.

“Two,” George says.

“Three!” they both shout, jumping over the line with their eyes squeezed shut.

Nothing happens, but Ed still braces himself for some sort of magical retribution.

Fred and George and everybody else in the Great Hall is too preoccupied with the twins’ apparent victory, they don’t notice the way the line pulses and throbs.

“Wait, watch out!” Ed yells, reaching for them.

He’s not fast enough and a blast of magic quickly shoots out from the pulsing line, throwing both Fred and George across the room in a flash of blinding white.

Ed’s by their side in an instant.

“You alright?”

Fred groans and George simply lets out a hiss of pain while rubbing at his spine.

But all Ed can focus on is the greying hairs on their identical heads, the long, curling beards that have erupted on their chins.

“Oh man,” Ed says, staring unabashed. “He got you good.”

“What does that–, Merlin’s actual beard, Georgie, have you looked at yourself?”

George quickly turns to look at Fred. “Speak for yourself!”

The students in the Great Hall start to laugh, not unkindly, at the twins’ misfortune. They themselves take it in stride, acting as if they’ve actually turned one hundred years old, hobbling as they get up and complaining about nonexistent joint pain.

“Oh, shut up, you deserve it,” Ed snorts. “C’mon. I’ll take you to Pomfrey.”

They give shaky bows on their way out and receive a standing ovation.

* * * * *

The Great Hall is a little louder than usual, a bit more restless energy in the air.

Dinner is a touch more extravagant, Hogwarts students are eager to socialize with the visiting students, and even the professors seem to be in a good mood (including Snape, who doesn’t seem to sneer as much as he normally would). After everyone has eaten their fill, Dumbledore and the other two Headmasters rise from their seats and a hush falls over the room.

It’s finally time to announce the three champions of the Triwizard Tournament.

Each headmaster approaches the Goblet of Fire, the flames within flickering just over the edge of the cup itself.

Karkaroff approaches the Goblet first, extending a hand in wait of something.

The students barely dare to breathe, watching with an intensity usually reserved for exams.

The Goblet, bathed in cold blue light, suddenly changes.

All of the flames turn red and a wave of oohs and ahhs flood the crowd. From the flames shoots out a scrap of unburned parchment paper.

“Durmstrang’s champion is Viktor Krum,” Karkoroff announces, reading off the parchment with an openly proud grin plastered on his normally sullen face.

Madame Maxine steps forward next, towering over even the cup.

Its flames flare red again, before spitting out yet another intact piece of parchment paper. 

“The champion for Beauxbaton is Ms. Fleur Delacour.” She smiles with an air of satisfaction as Fleur rises from the Ravenclaw table to join Krum in the room behind the professors’ table.

Dumbledore is the last to approach the Goblet, the familiar twinkle gleaming in his eyes as he does.

The Goblet flashes red for the last time and Dumbledore catches the paper from the air with ease.

“And the Hogwarts champion is —” he stops abruptly, staring at the slip of parchment in his hands with no discernable emotion.

The Great Hall grows uneasy, breaking out in suspicious gossip.

“Why isn’t he saying anything?”

“Who is it!”

“What’s happening?”

One person shouts. “Just say it’s Diggory and get on with it!”

Dumbledore pulls himself back. “The Hogwarts champion is Edward Elric,” he says with forced cheer.

The Great Hall stills to silence.

And then it explodes.

“Did he just say _Elric_?”

“He’s not even seventeen!”

“What the fuck?!”

“How is this ALLOWED!”

Every single member of the Muggles book book club sits stiffly amongst their own Houses, confused and tense and unable to utter a word at all.

The rest of the Great Hall isn’t deterred from continuing to voice their disbelief.

“Where is he?”

“Bloody hell!”

“How did he get around the age limit?”

There’s another five minutes of outrage before anyone realizes that Edward Elric isn’t even in the room to begin with.

In the ensuing scramble to locate the Hufflepuff, the Goblet of Fire flares red once more.

The three headmasters turn to face the cup, bewildered. 

“What is—”

Another slip of parchment emerges from the flame and Dumbledore plucks it out of the air.

And no one is more surprised than Harry Potter when his name is called as the fourth champion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> thank y'all for reading and giving kudos, leaving comments, bookmarking, etc. — i really appreciate it!
> 
> fun fact: i wrote the last section, the goblet of fire scene back when i was writing chapter 3/4 of this fic lol i had a hard time deciding if i was going to do cedric dirty like this, but i wanted ed in the tournament, but also couldn't justify taking harry out, so that left cedric ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ what can you do  
> events are in full swing from here on in :-)
> 
> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


	16. edward elric and the never-ending curse that is wizard fuckery (come one, come all, come meet your new hogwarts champion!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ed gets to find out what it's like to be a hogwarts champion, hogwarts needs to pick sides, maybe harry and ed can understand each other after all
> 
> wizard fuckery, basically

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy "friday" the thirteenth!
> 
> black lives matter!  
> trans lives matter!  
> stay safe and healthy!

Ed is flipping through a few geography books in the complete stillness of the library, scribbling barely legible notes on possible places of interest to Riddle. He’s already marked down several key “pureblood” landmarks that historically meant a lot to wizards who are into that sort of thing (namely, Riddle and his ilk).

He has no idea where the rest of the Horcruxes could be or even a hint of what they might look like. The only real lead he’s got is that the Horcruxes that had already been dealt with (the diary, the ring, and the locket) were typically of great importance to either Riddle or his pureblood obsession.

There are only so many objects in the western wizarding world that could fill those criteria, although Ed is fucked if it turns out Riddle decided to use mostly personal items.

The sound of footsteps approaches him, which is extremely odd given the time — most people are definitely at the big Goblet of Fire reveal, which Ed had deliberately ditched. 

What’s worse is that the footsteps belong to McGonagall, whose face is twisted into a grimace, flanked by an upset Irma.

“Mr. Elric,” McGonagall says, tight-lipped. “Your presence is required in the Great Hall.”

That’s never happened before. “Why?”

She regards him with suspicious eyes. “We can discuss this once we are there.” Her tone brooks no further questions or argument.

He’s wracking his brain for any recent activities on his part that could get both McGonagall and Irma so upset with him and strangely finds that he can’t come up with a single thing. He’s been on his best behavior lately, considering he’s making an effort to get along with people and he actually somehow showed up for double detentions on the last few Wednesday’s.

It’s kind of unbelievable that even when he’s not trying, he’s in trouble.

But then again, it kind of _is_ believable.

There’s really only one thing that could make both of them look so serious and Ed has a steadily sinking feeling in his stomach that this has something to do with the Triwizard Tournament that he’s been trying to avoid at every turn.

* * * * *

McGonagall really doesn’t say another word as she leads him to the Great Hall, but that’s not nearly as terrible as what follows.

Trailing after her down the center of the Great Hall, Ed can’t help but feel like it’s last year all over again. The whispers, the staring, the incredibly unbearable atmosphere of a place that screams “you don’t belong here”. It’s even worse now that students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons are doing the same and they don’t even know him.

At least, they _shouldn’t._

He catches Luna’s eye as he walks to the front and he raises an eyebrow.

_Do you know what’s going on?_

She shakes her head slightly, but she looks worried, which can’t be a good sign. 

The rest of his friends don’t look much better. Neville looks extremely anxious, a rare sight nowadays, and Ginny has a fierce look in her eye. 

The twins look stunned.

Blaise is stock still.

And the Slytherins stare blankly on.

Ed continues to march forward, trailing behind McGonagall with only minimal reluctance in his steps. 

She leads him into the back room, right behind the professors’ table, where Remus is shooting worried glances his way.

There, the Headmasters and three students, presumably the Triwizard champions, stand waiting for him.

One of them, of-fucking-course, is Harry Potter.

_What the hell happened to “seventeen and older”?_

That still doesn’t really explain what Ed’s doing here.

He frowns. “What’s going on?”

Dumbledore looks at him with a polite smile, but if Ed squints just right, it looks strained more than anything. “Ah, Mr. Elric, we were waiting on you. Did you happen to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

That startles a laugh out of Ed, until he realizes he’s the only one to do so. He resists the almost painful need to scoff. “I did not,” he replies tersely.

The headmaster from Durmstrang bristles. “Listen here, you little brat. Your name came out of the Goblet, so there’s no point in denying it—, we _know!_ We know what you’ve done!” He breaks off into a string of Russian that doesn’t need to be translated for Ed to understand.

“Igor, please,” Dumbledore says, quietly, but firm. He turns to Ed once more. “Your name did indeed come out of the Goblet. Are you certain you did not put your name in? Did you perhaps ask an older student to do so on your behalf?”

“What!” Ed nearly shouts. “I wouldn’t put my name in even if my life depended on it, let alone have someone else do it for me!”

Harry’s staring at him and he can quite literally feel his eye contact against his skin.

“The boy’s obviously lying,” Madame Maxine says, her accent thick and foreign to Ed’s ears. “There is no other explanation.”

“I’m not lying,” Ed snaps, losing what little composure he has left. “I’ve had no interest in signing up for the tournament, ask anyone.”

“That’s exactly what he said,” Karkaroff accuses, throwing an evil glare Harry’s way.

_Is this really happening?_

“And why wouldn’t he? He’s fourteen, he shouldn’t even be here!”

“ _You’re_ fourteen!” Harry says petulantly.

“I’m sixteen,” Ed corrects, much to the surprise of everyone in the room, except for Dumbledore, who just murmurs thoughtfully.

“But you are so short,” the Durmstrang champion says, giving him a onceover. Every sound he makes sounds sharp and guttural, a far cry from the way Madame Maxine blurs hers together. “I thought you were twelve.”

“What’s your name?” Ed demands.

The boy wrinkles his brow in confusion. “What?”

“What. Is. Your. Name?” Ed repeats, stamping out each word.

“Viktor,” he replies, still confused.

“Fuck you, Viktor,” Ed snarls, forgetting who his audience currently is.

That gets a reaction from the other boy immediately. “What’s _your_ name?”

“Ed.”

Viktor glares. “Fuck you, Ed.”

“Viktor!” Karkaroff admonishes, staring at his star pupil with something akin to shock and embarrassment in his eyes.

“I think that’s quite enough, Mr. Krum, Mr. Elric,” Dumbledore interjects. He’s still as calm, as unruffled, as ever. He gazes at Ed impassively, unblinking. “I’m afraid someone may have interfered with the Goblet. It seems there are two Hogwarts champions.”

“This is unheard of,” Madame Maxine says. “Perhaps you were hoping for this to happen.”

“That’s a serious accusation,” McGonagall interrupts; Ed had almost forgotten she was there at all. “Are you suggesting Dumbledore tampered with the Goblet?”

Madame Maxine purses her lips. “I have made no such accusation. I am merely bringing to light how peculiar the Headmaster’s response has been.”

“Well, what would you have him do? Remove them from the tournament? You know as well as I how that will end, Headmistress,” McGonagall retorts, quite bluntly. “This is an unprecedented situation.”

“What do you mean?” Ed says, not one to sit quietly while the adults argue. “I didn’t sign up for this, I’m not doing it.”

“Me too,” Harry adds on, although he seems to take issue with having to agree with Ed on anything.

“It’s not that simple,” McGonagall says, turning to address them now. “The Goblet has already chosen, whether you were the one to put your name in or not. You must compete.”

Ed frowns. “I don’t get it. Why can’t you just withdraw us right now? We already said we didn’t want to. Our names were put in there without our consent — this is bullshit!”

“Watch your mouth,” Karkaroff snaps. “No one is particularly pleased with this, but we can’t just ignore what the Goblet has decided.”

“He’s right,” a new voice says.

Crouch enters the room, with Bagman trailing after him like an overeager puppy.

“We cannot ignore the Goblet’s will,” Crouch states, all while looking at Ed in particular. “That can lead to magical repercussions, the magnitude of which we are uncertain.”

“You’ve been using the Goblet for centuries, I’m guessing, and you just–, what, don’t _know_ what happens if you don’t do whatever it says?” Ed asks, as insubordinate as he dares to be in front of the wizards.

Crouch’s eye twitches. His tongue darts out to wet his lips before he chooses to respond. “That is correct.”

If Ed had imagined Crouch’s ignorance and short-sightedness had been at its peak the night the Dark Mark was cast, he was terribly wrong.

“Then why did you make the _incredibly_ intelligent decision to use the Goblet in the first place?” Ed asks, sarcasm dripping with his every word.

“It was intended to be an impartial judge. How were we to know its impartiality would cause this kind of result?”

“Did you never imagine that your fourteen-year-old ‘Chosen One’, who gets into trouble every fu–, every single year at Hogwarts—”

“Not every year!” Harry tries to protest.

“— would somehow end up involved in this mess? This sounds like an excellent way to get some unwilling, underaged wizard _murdered._ Not just any random wizard either, but a very specific, often sought out, unwilling, underaged wizard. Had that not occurred to _anyone_ involved in the process of planning this?”

“No, it hadn’t,” Crouch answers curtly, the same way he’d uttered it had been Harry’s wand to cast the Dark Mark that night.

Ed slaps a hand over his face and drags it down.

“That’s enough,” McGonagall says sharply.

“So, what’s going to happen?” Ed pushes on. “Who’s the Hogwarts champion?”

No one will even look his way, except for Viktor who still seems to be upset about Ed’s _short_ temper.

“Well?” he demands.

“You will both have to compete,” Dumbledore says softly, almost apologetic in his delivery. 

“ _You’ve got to be fucking kidding me right now_ ,” Ed spits out.

Harry’s expression reveals a similar line of thinking.

Crouch speaks up then. “The first task will take place on the twenty-fourth of November. Be—”

Ed swears the man’s eyes are lingering on him as he speaks, the sensation unpleasant.

He thinks briefly of Winky, and wonders if that explains Crouch’s subtle interest in him.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Ed’s made his dislike of the man too obvious.

“— dismissed.” 

Madame Maxine holds out a hand for the Beauxbaton girl to take and the pair depart, while Karkaroff slings an arm over Viktor’s shoulders and herds him away.

Crouch and Bagman look expectantly towards the remaining Hogwarts contenders.

Dumbledore turns to face Harry and Ed, who don’t really know what to do other than stand with their arms hanging limply at their sides.

“I think it best if you both try to get some sleep,” he says.

“Right, and maybe when I wake up this entire nightmare will be over,” Ed replies sarcastically.

Harry scowls, but not quite at him either.

“Unfortunately, Edward,” Dumbledore says, still in a terribly soft voice, “there is not much else I can do, except wish you luck as the tournament proceeds.”

“ _Fat lot of good that’ll fucking do,_ ” Ed mutters before turning and exiting the room. 

He doesn’t wait for Harry to catch up. 

* * * * *

It’s late enough that there aren’t any students milling about, which means Ed gets to avoid the questions that are sure to be raised, come morning. 

He’s going towards the dorms, or at least he thinks he is. Actually, he isn’t even fully aware of his surroundings when George appears from nowhere, grabs his hand and starts to drag him somewhere.

“Where are we going,” Ed asks.

“Everyone’s waiting for you in the kitchen,” George replies. “I’m just the one who’s bringing you there.” After a moment of silence, he speaks again. “You alright?”

Ed doesn’t really know how to answer that. “Define alright and then I’ll let you know.”

George squeezes his hand tightly in lieu of a response.

They walk in silence.

George is the one who tickles the pear and he then pulls Ed into the kitchen, where the book club members are occupying one of the large picnic tables in various states of panic and worry — Fred and Neville are visibly feeding off each other’s nervous energy. 

“I’m kind of surprised you guys didn’t bring Potter here, too,” Ed says.

“He’s got Hermione and Ron, he’ll be fine,” Ginny points out. “On the other hand, if we weren’t here, you’d probably be keeping all of this crap to yourself.”

“Language,” Ed scowls, but Ginny scowls back.

“Is that really important right now? Bloody hell, you’ve been picked as a champion, Ed — what is going on?” Neville asks, eyes round and wide with concern and fear.

“I have no fucking idea,” Ed says, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it. When he takes a seat on the bench, Luna scoots over and raises a hand to touch his braid before stopping.

He nods slightly and she takes to combing her fingers through his hair, working out the mess of knots it’s become over the last hour or so.

“You didn’t put your name in?” Blaise asks.

“When would I have? Also, _why_ would I have?”

“Fair point,” he murmurs, more to himself than to Ed, “but who would have put it in otherwise?”

“I don’t know,” Ed says tiredly, for what feels like the hundredth time that night. “I really fucking don’t know.”

Both Fred and George are uncharacteristically quiet and Fred is so twitchy Ed is starting to worry that he needs to visit Pomfrey and get a draught to soothe his nerves.

“You all doing alright?” he asks, looking to them expectantly.

“You’re asking _us_ if _we’re_ alright?” Fred asks in disbelief. “Ed, are _you_ alright?”

“I’m fine,” Ed responds, and he mostly means it. “I mean, I’ll live,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat when he sees how unamused his friends are.

“You were the one saying how dangerous this could be…,” George trails off.

Everyone is solemn. 

It’s no secret Ed had been opposed to the very idea of the Tournament. He had blatantly refused to join in on most of their discussions on what kind of events might occur. 

“You’re still participating then?” Ginny asks.

“I don’t have a choice,” Ed says, resigned. “Apparently this is some kind of magical hostage situation. For me and Potter.”

“How is that allowed?” Neville furrows his brow in thought. 

Ed shrugs. “Goblet of Fire,” he says, as if that explains everything. 

“Goblet of Fire,” Luna echoes, and they all fall silent.

It’s ominous and grim and unlike anything Ed normally associates with his friends.

He despises it, but he’s helpless to change it; the only choice now is to get through it.

* * * * *

It’s some time later, when it’s far too late for students to be out of bed, but the book club members have given up on sleeping for the night, that Neville asks a question Ed wishes he wouldn’t.

“How come you don’t just call him Harry like everyone else?”

“I don’t _not_ call him Ha–, Harry,” Ed says defiantly.

“You just tripped yourself up trying to call him Harry,” Neville points out.

“Yeah, what gives?” Ginny asks, wrinkling her nose. She’s half-lying, half-sitting on the table, clearly too tired to function.

Ed shrugs. He really wants them to drop it. “I don’t know. It’s awkward.”

George blinks. “Why? You barely know him.” 

“Would you believe me when I say it’s complicated?”

“No,” Ginny says bluntly. “It’s probably not that complicated. C’mon, Ed, spill.”

He makes a face at her and she snorts, but doesn’t stop waiting for an answer. Neither does the rest of the book club, waiting patiently for some sort of explanation.

Luna, in particular, gives him a tiny nod of encouragement. He doesn’t know how much she knows about Sirius, but she probably wouldn’t be surprised even if she hadn’t had an idea before. 

Well, now’s as good a time as any, right?

“Do you guys know about Potter’s godfather?”

“Sirius Black?” Blaise asks immediately. “What about him?”

“Woah, Sirius Black is Harry’s _godfather_?” Fred exclaims. “I thought he was trying to kill him last year!”

“But then that _Prophet_ article came out, remember?” George nudges his brother.

“Oh, right. Yeah, I forgot about that.”

Ginny rolls her eyes. She’s slid down from her half-seated position to lying across the table. “Only you would forget the biggest news of the year.”

“Anyways,” Ed interrupts the siblings’ squabbling, “I kind of… know him? And I don’t think Potter’s taken that particularly well.”

Neville stares at him. “You _know_ Sirius Black, like know him personally? Just casually happened to meet him sometime over the summer, or what?”

Ed winces. “Not–, not over the summer.”

They’re all staring at him now.

“Then when?” George asks.

There’s an immediate glimmer of understanding in Luna’s eyes when Ed doesn’t respond. It only takes a minute longer before everyone else catches up.

“Merlin’s fucking arsehole, did you meet him during the term?” Fred shouts.

“Language,” Ed snaps.

George gives him an incredulous look. “You think this is the time to talk about _our_ _cursing_ , when you bloody just admitted you met a criminal during the school year?”

“He’s not a criminal,” Ed replies.

“When did you even have time to meet him?” Blaise asks, more curious than surprised.

George’s jaw drops. “Merlin. Merlin’s pants, was that what all that studying was about last year?”

“You were ditching us to hang out with a criminal?” Fred screeches.

“Fucking hell, you guys are taking this far worse than I thought you would,” Ed mutters, raising a hand to his temple.

Luna finally speaks up, silencing the growing ruckus of every person trying to speak over one another. “If Ed trusts Mr. Black and Harry does too, why are we worrying about little things?”

Fred blinks incredulously at her. “Did you just–, did you just refer to Sirius Black being a _criminal_ as a _little thing_?”

She shrugs. “He’s not, though, is he. His name’s been cleared.”

“She’s got a point,” Neville says, pursing his lips. 

“Besides, Ed’s already punched a Death Eater, he wouldn’t have been scared,” Ginny says through a yawn.

George makes an attempt to talk over his sister, but the damage is done. 

Luna turns to him with startled eyes. 

“He what!” Neville gasps. 

Blaise’s face, usually smooth and blemish-free, crumples. 

(Ed doesn’t know what to make of Blaise’s distress, because he doesn’t know if Blaise’s family has any ties to the Death Eaters. It’s hard to know for sure with legacy Slytherins families.)

_This is not… ideal._

“It was one time?” he tries weakly. 

“One time?” Fred snorts. “There were three of them!”

“Fred!” George hisses. 

Ed covers his eyes with his hand and breathes out slowly. “Alright, so the more you know, I _guess_. Thanks for that, guys. Nice. Real nice.”

Fred shrugs, unashamed. “Hey, it happened. And we were there for it.”

“Yes, but did you need to share that fun little tidbit with everyone?”

“I mean, hey, no one’s talking about your friendship with Sirius Black anymore,” Fred points out.

“They’re going to now,” Ginny adds, “since you’ve so kindly reminded us.”

“It’s too late for this,” Ed groans. “No, it’s too early. What time is it?”

“It’s almost four,” Luna answers.

His friends take pity on him and change the subject once he promises a more thorough explanation once he’s gotten some decent sleep. Even with the slowly dwindling conversations happening as they all wait for breakfast, Ed hasn’t forgotten that’s he just been goblet-picked as a champion for this idiotic Triwizard Tournament.

And surely, his friends aren’t the only ones with questions.

He’s _really_ not looking forward to the morning.

* * * * *

Ed’s least favorite question of all time used to be: “What happened to your arm?” — and that was in a universe where automail at least existed.

He’s quickly found a new one to add to the list: “So, did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?”

“No,” he answers curtly for the twelfth time that _hour_. “I didn’t.”

When the Ravenclaw opens their mouth to argue with him, he cuts them off before they can get a word in. “I didn’t put my name in and I’m not going to explain myself more than that.”

Hogwarts is restless, divided.

Who are they to cheer on in the Tournament? 

Who is technically their true champion?

Is it even fair that the two champions weren’t technically allowed to be chosen in the first place?

On one hand, they’ve had enough of Harry Potter’s involvement in _shenanigans_ every year.

“It’s always Potter,” they complain. “Why were we even surprised?”

On the other hand, no one is immediately eager to openly support Ed either. 

He’s far more personable than he was a year ago, but with the recent developments in his life, Ed’s basically reverted back to using snappish, brusque answers when probed by other students hoping to get a chance to see his dazzling personality in action.

“You can cheer for Potter,” Ed says, before they bother to bring it up to him. “I’m not planning on trying.”

“Isn’t that… not allowed?”

“Oh no,” Ed deadpans, “whatever will I do. It’s _not allowed._ Oh. Oh no.” He snorts derisively and walks off without so much as a backwards glance.

“Rude,” the Ravenclaw mutters.

* * * * *

The Hogwarts Houses are conflicted about their champions because of the circumstances under which they became champions. But when it really gets down to it, it’s a simple matter 

Gryffindor doesn’t see it as a choice to make — for them, there’s only one person they can support.

Ravenclaw, likewise, is more than ready to ignore the _how_ of Harry Potter becoming a champion when confronted with the idea of openly supporting Edward Elric in any endeavor. (They certainly know how to hold their grudges.)

Slytherin isn’t fond of either of them. Draco and his posse are personally opposed to “picking Potter’s team”, but in reality, most of Slytherin doesn’t care for Harry or Ed in the given situation.

Ed’s own House is rather unenthusiastic, despite supporting him, seeing as most of them had been anticipating Cedric to be in the running for Triwizard champion.

“Not that we aren’t… proud, to have a Hufflepuff champion, I mean, that’s excellent, but… you’re… er, we weren’t expecting—”

Ed cuts Elliott off brusquely. “I didn’t put my name in, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“Right,” Ernie agrees, as does Archie. 

Several of the other Hufflepuffs cast skeptical glances his way.

“I wonder who did,” Cedric muses, forehead furrowed in thought.

Ed wants to say something, but he doesn’t know how to address the growing prickle of guilt that stabs at him. 

Cedric had easily taken him at his word, believed him wholeheartedly, even at the cost of his own name having been picked as a champion. How can a person be so nice and so utterly selfless?

He ruminates on it constantly, until he can’t take it anymore.

“You should’ve been picked, you know,” Ed says bluntly.

They’re the only two left in the common room, Ed with yet another book of wizarding maps propped against his knees and Cedric with a several feet of crinkled parchment spread in front of him.

“Hm?” Cedric murmurs, too focused on scribbling his transfiguration essay to be paying attention to Ed.

“The Tournament. You should’ve been a champion.”

Cedric finally looks up. “Look on the bright side,” he says, flashing him an easy grin, “at least I’ll have enough time to actually study, so that my NEWTs will be good enough to get into the Auror program.”

“I want to punch you right now,” Ed scowls.

Cedric laughs. “And why is that?”

“Aren’t you upset? Me and Potter… neither of us should’ve been picked. Like, someone was fucking around and Potter’s name coming out of the Goblet, I kind of understand, but me? I’d be pissed if I were in your shoes.”

“What’s the use in being angry? You might not have put your name in, and neither did Harry, but the Goblet is picking the best candidate regardless, right?”

Cedric waits for him to nod before continuing. 

“Yeah, so it means I wasn’t meant to be a champion. You were. No, you _are_. And Harry is, too. And who am I to say anything about that?” He smiles, bright and genuine and kind.

Ed wants to hide from it.

“You’re a good person,” he says at last. “Too good of a person.”

That startles Cedric, who tilts his head while parting his mouth slightly. “I don’t get you sometimes, Ed.”

“Who does?” Ed smiles wryly.

* * * * *

It’s not terribly unexpected that the Slytherins ultimately decide to support Ed in the upcoming Tournament. It’s still a surprise, but it shouldn’t really be, given their options.

“Obviously, we don’t have much of a choice,” Draco sniffs. “But if a choice must be made, then I suppose we’ll have to choose you, won’t we?”

Pansy and Greg nod in agreement. Theodore ignores him and Vincent, as usual, is more preoccupied with anything other than conversation.

“It’s not like you speak for the rest of your House,” Ed snorts.

The book club had continued their regular intrusion of the dining tables at meal times when Ed had told them he’s fine with it. (At that time, they’d appeared skeptical on his liberal use of “fine”, but trusted him to be honest with him on something like this.)

“Oh, but I _do_.” Draco practically bounces in his seat, and he really seems like he’s fourteen for once. “We’ve held a House meeting and it’s all been discussed.”

“You guys have House meetings?” Ginny asks with a wrinkle of her nose.

“How else would we discuss important things?”

“What could you possibly have to discuss that’s important?” Fred says. “Do you color coordinate your underthings?”

“Don’t be disgusting, Weasley,” Pansy snorts. “As if any of us lack the decency to wear any color other than green.”

“You’re just going to admit that, then? That you actually color coordinate your pants with the rest of your House, like that’s normal,” Fred continues, bulldozing any meaningful conversation about Slytherin’s choice.

Only Ed bothers to continue Draco’s original conversation.

“Don’t pull any asshole moves, alright?” Ed warns the other boy.

Draco chews on the inside of his cheek. “Alright,” he concedes.

He’d clearly been planning something, although now, Ed trusts that Draco’ll be true to his word and drop it. Ed doesn’t want to even think about what kind of petty shit the Slytherin had planned before he preemptively shut it down. 

He’s just grateful that he’s built enough rapport with the Slytherins to encourage basic regard for other people.

* * * * *

Ed sends a letter in the morning that only has a hastily scribbled, _I’m in the tournament_.

He receives an owl during lunch that drops Sirius’ response.

_WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?_

God, wizards need a more convenient way to communicate, like telegrams or phones. The owls are messy, barfing pellets and shitting everywhere (occasionally on the dining hall tables, despite his friends’ insistence that they’re all specially trained) and Ed openly despises the loophole they present in the Fidelius charm — he still hasn’t managed to think of a decent security measure for said loophole.

 _Someone’s fucking with the Goblet_ , Ed writes back, not bothering with a more detailed explanation.

_WHO!_

_If I knew that, I wouldn’t be writing you these stupid letters, I would be out there giving them a piece of my mind!_

_DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID, TALK TO MOONY, CALL ME ON THE FLOO, DO SOMETHING!_

_What the hell am I supposed to do?_

Ed doesn’t get a response to that last letter, but he isn’t expecting one.

There’s nothing to be done, after all.

Someone had sealed his fate this year — the question remains as to precisely who that someone is.

* * * * *

Other than the irritating questions about how he managed to “cheat” the Goblet, Ed doesn’t get an opportunity to forget that he’s still, above all else at the moment, a student.

He’s attending his classes, ignoring the whispers and outright jeers occasionally thrown his way (nothing far too out of the ordinary for him, to be honest), and focuses on living life as if nothing has changed.

This only works to an extent.

Ed’s sitting in Transfiguration, not paying any attention at all, when a timid looking first-year informs McGonagall that the champions’ presence is required for some photo-related reasons.

“I’d rather not,” Ed grits out, in the politest tone he can manage.

“There’ll be none of that,” McGonagall says. “You are excused, Mr. Elric.”

Ed drags his feet in following after the first year, who glances back at him with curiosity and fear every other step.

“It’s down the hall and around the corner,” the first year squeaks and then races off before Ed can even thank them.

The Beauxbaton champion is seated, ankles crossed, hands placed on her knees, looking the picture of gentlewomanly elegance despite being in a crappy, wooden Hogwarts chair. Viktor is leaning against the wall behind her, a hand shoved roughly into his trouser pocket.

“Good to know I’m not last,” he says, noting Harry’s absence.

“You _are_ last,” the Beauxbaton girl corrects him. She has the same kind of accent as her Headmistress, nasal and smooth. “That reporter woman took Harry.”

“Reporter?”

“Rita Skeeter,” the girl supplies.

That name rings a bell. He’s trying to remember where he heard it when he talks again. “Oh. Took him?”

“They’re in the closet.” She tips her head to the door just outside the room.

“Right,” Ed says, not really understanding what they’re doing in a broom closet. “What’s your name?”

She manages to convey disappointment by simply dropping her eyes to his shoes. “I am Fleur. Delacour. It is… a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Ed says to be polite.

She makes a noise like she doesn’t believe him. 

He doesn’t bother addressing Viktor, who ignores him just the same.

An unfamiliar man wanders into the room with Crouch, Bagman and the Headmasters in tow.

“Where is Mr. Potter?”

“With Ms. Skeeter,” Fleur answers promptly.

“Well, we need him to proceed,” Bagman insists. “Someone go fetch him. We’ll be preparing in the next room.”

They leave the teenagers behind.

None of them make a move towards the hallway.

Ed frowns. “Well, is anyone going to get P–, Harry from the closet?”

Fleur and Viktor stare at him blankly.

“Fine,” Ed grumbles.

He marches across the hallway and opens the closet door. Inside, squished in between several dusty brooms and rusty buckets, Harry and the reporter both turn to blink at him, like prey animals caught in a bright light.

“Hate to ruin the party, but they’re looking for you,” he drawls.

There’s a flicker of conflicted gratitude that registers on Harry’s face, the relief of escaping the Skeeter woman’s proverbial claws visibly at war with his dislike of Ed being the one to help him out.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters as he rushes out of the closet.

Skeeter, on the other hand, looks terribly put out on having lost her interviewee. She glances over Ed curiously, taking in his clothes, his gloves, and his angry grimace.

A smug grin spreads across her face. “Were you hoping for an exclusive piece yourself?”

That’s when it hits him: Rita Skeeter, notorious writer for the Daily Prophet. From what Ed’s read, she seems to spin stories more often than actually reporting on them, making unfair assumptions and skewing evidence to present her poisonous opinions favorably to the public.

Yeah, as if he’s going to talk to this woman ever.

Ed snorts. “Not at all.” 

And then he slams the door in her stuck-up face.

He’s walking off before she can open the door and yell at him when he runs into Viktor, the only one waiting for him in the first room.

“You will regret that,” the Durmstrang student informs him solemnly, furrowing his eyebrows as he does. “She is a snake. She will not let things go once they are in her grasp.”

It’s the first time they’ve spoken since they swore at each other, the night they were all picked by the Goblet.

“I’m going to tell you a secret, Viktor, because I think you’re going to find out more about me during this competition whether I like it or not.” He beckons the other boy closer; Viktor reluctantly obliges. “I don’t give a shit about what that third-rate excuse of a reporter has to say about me.” He grins, baring all his teeth.

Viktor blinks. And then he’s smiling, oddly warm despite how uncomfortably it sits on his face. He doesn’t say anything else, just gives him a small nod and wanders off.

* * * * *

The so-called Weighing of the Wands is an event of exaggerated importance in Ed’s mind. The wandmaker Ollivander (the only one in the United Kingdom, from what Ed’s learned) judges each of the champions’ wands, ensuring they’re in proper condition for the tasks ahead.

Viktor and Fleur get by without issue.

Ollivander spends a little more time looking over Harry’s, recounting the day he bought it from the man himself.

Ed, though, is a different case.

Isn’t he always?

“My word, what an unusual wand you have,” Ollivander says, more to himself than to Ed, rolling the wand between his fingers. “Not one I’ve made, naturally.”

_Oh, fuck. Truth, I’m about to blow my fucking cover. One year in and everything is blowing up in my face spectacularly._

“I’m not from here,” Ed says.

Ollivander slants his eyes toward Ed as if to say, “That’s obvious”.

“Curious choice of symbol.” Ollivander taps the bottom of the wand. Just behind the wandmaker, Ed can see Dumbledore’s eyes light up as he listens in on the conversation. “Alchemy is a rather outdated magic for a wizard of your age.”

Ed runs his tongue over his teeth. “I was homeschooled,” he answers curtly.

Ollivander raises an eyebrow at the attitude of his words, but hands back his wand. “Homeschooled in alchemy? By whom? Very few practitioners exist nowadays, especially following the unfortunate passing of Mr. Flamel.”

Fuck, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Books,” Ed shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Am I done now?”

“That’s hardly an appropriate response,” Ollivander retorts. 

“It’s the truth, though. So… is that all?”

Ollivander inhales harshly through his nose. “Quite,” he says stiffly, handing over Ed’s wand.

“Everyone is fit for battle,” Ollivander announces to the Headmasters.

That does nothing except steep Ed’s thoughts in dread. 

_For battle_. 

He obsesses over that tiny phrase, a euphemism that shouldn’t send him spiralling the way it currently is, when all he can think about is two seventeen-year-olds and a fourteen-year-old fighting their way through the “potential dangers” Dumbledore had promised would accompany the title of “champion”.

There’s no point in worrying about himself, of course. He considers himself well-accustomed to unpredictable and perilous situations and trusts he is experienced enough to weather through whatever wizard nonsense is going to be thrown his way.

He doesn’t listen to the photographer who ushers them to stand in certain positions, manhandled for a photo he really doesn’t want to take, if he had had the choice to refuse.

“When is this going to be over?” Ed mutters. 

Fleur sighs ever so slightly — Ed would like to think it’s in agreement, but he has a feeling she’s too proper for it to be anything more than annoyance with his disagreeable attitude.

“This would go faster if you would just grin and bear it like the rest of us,” Harry says under his breath.

It’s true that the photographer isn’t happy with the photos, mostly because Ed is scowling horribly in every single shot. Nothing anyone says can elicit an even neutral expression from him, so the photographer had insisted on holding on to them until Ed, at the very least, smoothes out his brow.

Naturally, he refuses.

They take photos for another hour before the photographer gives up, realizing Ed is more stubborn than he is.

Harry, Fleur, and all three Headmasters are clearly aggravated, but Viktor just looks amused.

“Glad you have more of a sense of humor than I thought you would,” Ed says to him as they leave.

Viktor shakes his head slightly. “You are too stubborn. What is one photo to save an hour of one’s time?”

“It’s about my principles,” Ed replies adamantly. 

Viktor chuckles softly. “You must have some impressive principles.”

Ed rolls his eyes. “Stick around and you’ll see.” He gestures around them, to invisible people. “You’ll all see.”

“I will hold you to that,” Viktor says and then he’s gone with a slight wave of his fingers.

Ed watches him walk off, curious as to whether he’s made a new friend, when Neville and Ginny approach him.

Neville looks star-struck. “Were you just talking to _Viktor Krum_?”

Ed does a double-take at the retreating Bulgarian. “Like the Quidditch player?”

Ginny gapes at him. “Yes, like the Quidditch player! How can you not remember when we were at the bloody World Cup together!”

“How should I know?” Ed says defensively. “I barely remember the rules of Quidditch, I’m not going out of my way to remember the names of people playing the game.”

“You should,” Neville says, making a face.

“No, thanks.”

Neville and Ginny all but forget about the famous Quidditch star in favor of insulting Ed’s favorite pastime of reading to the point of obsession.

* * * * *

Ed gets a note asking to meet after dinner one night and finds himself in Remus’ classroom on a Friday evening.

“Is this a detention?” Ed jokes, taking his customary seat for said punishment.

“Hardly,” Remus smiles.

They haven’t really been able to talk about it.

It, being the Triwizard Tournament bullshit that everyone else Ed doesn’t know has been grilling him about.

“How’re you? How’s Sirius?”

Remus sits down behind his desk and the ghost of a smile crosses Ed’s face. A year ago, they’d sat, just like this, except they’d known nothing about each other and hadn’t wanted to give the other an ounce of trust.

And here they are now, practically family.

“Sirius is fine,” Remus starts, “if one can call the pacing and shouting fine.”

“Took the news that well, did he?” Ed says sarcastically.

“Obviously.” There’s concern and care in how Remus chooses to proceed. “You seem to find trouble no matter what you do, don’t you?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ed says, “even if I’m definitely not.”

“He’s hoping to speak with you soon.”

“He does?”

Remus’ expression softens. “Of course. He’s trying to come here soon.”

Ed runs a hand through his hair. “And how’s he planning on doing that? More breaking and entering?”

“Ah, actually, he’s sent a letter to Dumbledore.”

That brings Ed to his feet. “Does he know I know?”

Remus shakes his head. “No, Sirius didn’t mention that. But he does know about Harry and that’s a perfectly acceptable reason to visit, don’t you suppose?”

Ed crosses his arms. “Harry won’t like it though, if I’m there.”

“He doesn’t have to. He might not understand it, and he might not trust you, but he’ll come around.”

“Sure,” Ed replies, skeptical. “We’ll just become the best of friends. Totally.”

“No one said you needed to be friends,” Remus points out.

“Yeah, well, I’m under the impression Sirius thinks we are. When he finds out we aren’t, he’s going to sulk. Big time. Worse than when you ruined his favorite sweater.”

“You have a point,” Remus sighs. “But regardless of Sirius’ feelings on the matter, no one is asking or forcing you to be friends. You two just need to stop antagonizing one another.”

“I’m not the one antagonizing anyone,” Ed snaps.

Remus raises an eyebrow. “You’re the one who orchestrated the meeting between Sirius and Harry last year, without any attempt to explain how you knew anything to start with. It’s a reasonable explanation for Harry’s irritation with you, especially considering how often he’s kept in the dark about his own life.” He smiles, but it’s sad somehow. “You should try to understand him. Merlin knows Sirius and I try to do the same for you.”

Ed swallows his words right then and there.

It’s true he’s been a bit mean in his methods of dealing with the Chosen One, more to avoid questions than anything else. But that kind of behavior had deprived Harry of much needed answers, not only from Ed, but from Remus and Sirius, since they clearly hadn’t told him about Ed without his expressed consent.

He doesn’t want to make life harder for them.

And truth be told, if Ed weren’t here, Harry wouldn’t have had this kind of awkwardness to deal with in relation to his parents’ friends. One of few living connections to his parents’ memory.

“I’ll be better about it,” Ed says at last. “But don’t tell him about… well, about, you know.” He gestures to his arm.

“We wouldn’t betray your trust like that,” Remus says. “After all, you’ve never betrayed ours.”

The three of them share more secrets than he’d really ever considered possible when he first woke up on the Hogwarts Express: that Sirius is an unregistered animagus, that Remus is a werewolf, that they’ve been living in the Black ancestral home together all summer, that Ed has limbs made of metal. 

“Yeah,” Ed says, “Hufflepuff, remember?”

Remus smiles, his eyes lighting up. “If only we could finally convince Sirius, eh?”

“If only,” Ed grumbles.

Remus laughs, the sound echoing off the walls.

They spend the rest of the evening catching up, speaking little of the Tournament — it’s an unspoken agreement that that’s being saved for when Sirius arrives this weekend.

* * * * *

An article is published in the Daily Prophet by one Rita Skeeter, embellishing the details of Harry’s private life.

They might not be friends, and they might not even be acquaintances at this point, but Ed is immediately incensed by the spreading gossip amongst Hogwarts students that Harry Potter is an attention-seeking bastard.

He hasn’t really been keeping tabs on Harry, mostly because he’d trusted Ginny when she said he’d be taken care of.

But he’d have to be blind to not notice the way Ron completely avoids his best friend these days.

The Weasleys in the book club had made it rather clear that Ron was working through his own jealousy, although in a rather immature way.

“Ron’s usually pretty patient,” George says to Ed. “But I think this was the one thing he might have thought he might’ve had the chance to be, to be special, I suppose. And Harry’s taken that too, even though he didn’t plan on it.”

“Do you guys feel that way?” Ed asks the other Weasleys.

“Not really,” Fred says, in a rare moment of sincerity related to his more private feelings. “We know how to get people’s attention when we feel like it. We have enough of it.”

George nods in agreement.

“And I’ve had enough attention for the rest of my life,” Ginny announces, referencing her stint as the unwilling Heir of Slytherin last year.

“You and me both,” Ed sighs.

Ginny grins crookedly. “Hey, at least you’re not alone. It could be worse.”

If he were in this position a year ago, he’d still be frustrated and unwilling, but he’d also be going through all of this by himself.

Ed bites back a smile and can’t help the overwhelming tingle of warmth that spreads through his body, all the way down to his fingertips and toes.

He is so, so lucky to have met the people he has.

* * * * *

The last time Ed, Sirius, Remus, and Harry had been in a room together, things had been awkward because there had been a considerable amount of suspicion and wariness.

This time, things are awkward because there is still a considerable amount of suspicion and wariness, except only on Harry’s part, in relation to Ed.

“So, you’ve been living together, with _him_?” Harry asks Sirius, looking pointedly at where Ed lounges on the chair.

Ed ignores it and settles into one of Remus’ armchairs like he owns the place. “How’s Kreacher?”

“He’s, uh, doing better, I guess,” Sirius shrugs, also ignoring Harry’s question, albeit for different reasons. “Winky’s been great to have around, they’re like, friends now. And Kreacher’s almost tolerable on a daily basis.”

“Oh, really? Crouch always looks like he wants to stab me through the eye with his wand,” Ed laughs. “Maybe the only good thing to come out of this idiotic Tournament, getting to watch his face twitch whenever he sees me and thinks about Winky.”

“And how are your friends?” Remus ventures, trying desperately to continue the aimless small talk they’re attempting right now.

Harry answers, admirably ruining all of Remus’ efforts without intending to. “Hermione’s great. And Ron is being an utter prick at the moment, so who knows how he’s doing.”

“Oh?” Remus frowns.

“He’s been avoiding me ever since Halloween. Seems to think I put my name into the Goblet, which I _didn’t_ , and didn’t tell him about it. He’s upset with me.”

Harry looks quite upset himself. 

Ed rolls his eyes and Harry is quick to scowl at him. “Your best friend is always in the shadows, of course he’s being a dick right now.”

The other boy snaps at him. “It’s not like I chose to have the life I have. I didn’t put my name in the Goblet. I didn’t ask Voldemort to put a scar on my head and kill my parents.”

“Yeah, obviously no one _asks_ to have a miserable life, but yours just happened to put you in the spotlight. And I wasn’t saying he’s only in your shadow either. Ron has six siblings, and he’s one of six boys. He probably never gets proper attention from anyone, whether that’s at home or at school, where his closest friends are the Chosen One and the smartest wizard in her year” — Ed holds up a hand to stop Harry from arguing — “and I’m not saying he’s not being a crap friend at the moment, I’m just saying being a little jealous given what his life is like all of the time is understandable. Especially if he’d told you he wanted to be in the tournament beforehand.”

Harry crosses his arms, defensive. “What would you know?”

“I don’t know,” Ed freely admits. “I can imagine, but I don’t really know what’s going through his head. I’ve asked George, though, and even if it’s different, I think he knows what it’s like to, to disappear in plain sight, almost.”

“Disappear?” Harry wrinkles his nose.

“Probably’ll never happen to you,” Ed comments, not mentioning it’s never happened to him either, “but a lot of people can just blend right into a crowd and _poof_! They’re gone in plain sight.” He shrugs. “Because no one’s looking at them, y’know? They’re just kind of there, but no one’s actively thinking about them, observing them, giving them attention.”

“Well, they should count themselves lucky,” Harry says hotly, “I’d love to be able to live a single day, no, a single _hour_ , without questions about my scar or Voldemort or my parents. Or the Tournament.”

“Yeah, and you get to feel that way since you’re ‘the Chosen One’” — he raises his fingers to make air quotations — “just like Ron gets to feel jealous for being a completely normal person with a famous friend.”

“He’s right, you know,” Sirius remarks quietly. He looks uncomfortable with the admission, shifting from foot to foot in wait of some kind of response from Harry, who clenches his fists.

“Ron’ll come around,” Sirius continues, “and it’s normal for friends to fight. But if you don’t try to understand where he’s coming from or talk to him about it, I think you’re going to lose an important friend. And you might think that’s fine now, in the heat of the moment, but ten years down the line, you’ll probably look back and regret it.” He glances at Remus, who seems to understand just what Sirius is referencing.

“Choice is yours,” Ed shrugs. “But from what I remember of last year, Ron’s a good friend. It’d suck to lose him over something this petty.”

Harry slumps into a sullen silence, which Ed takes as a good sign, in spite of the tension that it brings to the room.

“So,” Remus starts, “any ideas as to how your names ended up in the Goblet?”

“Well, I’m kind of assuming someone wants to murder you, Harry,” Sirius says, rather blunt to his teenage godson without any of the intention of hurting him.

“That was my first thought too,” Ed agrees.

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you,” Harry says, still sullen.

Ed snorts. “Contrary to popular belief, I have no desire to see a kid get murdered. I don’t want to see _anyone_ get murdered.”

“You’re a kid too!”

“Yeah, but I’m almost seventeen, so technically by wizard standards, I’m almost an adult.”

“You’re almost seventeen?” Sirius exclaims. “I thought this was your fourth year!”

Ed sticks out his tongue and pulls down his eyelids, because he’s more immature than he lets on. “So I started late, sue me.”

“This can wait for a later time,” Remus interrupts, as he usually does when Ed and Sirius are about to go off on a tangent. “More importantly, do either of you have any ideas on _who_ might’ve put your names in?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answers. “I’ve honestly thought about it and I don’t know.”

“Pretty sure there are plenty of Death Eaters and Ri–, You-Know-Who sympathizers looking for the perfect opportunity to get rid of you,” Ed supplies unhelpfully.

“Oh, fantastic, that narrows it down, doesn’t it?” Harry replies sarcastically.

Ed gives him a shit-eating grin. “You’re welcome.”

Harry bristles. “Well, what about you? Who put your name in? Or were you lying when you said you didn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Do you really think I’m the kind of person looking for fame and glory?” Ed scoffs. “I have no fucking idea who put my name in. There’s no one here who’d want to get me killed, unlike you. Plenty of people hate me, yeah, but they’re students. Why would they bother with an elaborate plan to try to kill me over something as petty as exam results?”

Something relaxes in the way Harry holds himself, as if Ed’s brutal honesty on the situation has allowed him to trust him at least a tiny bit.

It’s not entirely friendly, the way Harry and Ed squabble, but it makes things more light-hearted and easier to bear. As the four of them discuss what is to come and who might’ve orchestrated such an event, Harry reigns in his dislike of Ed and shapes it into something resembling tolerance.

Perhaps his unsolicited advice had actually made Harry begrudgingly accept that Ed isn’t the terrible, secretive asshole he thinks Ed is. Or maybe it’s the way that Ed freely shares information for once, not bothering to guard his current hypotheses on what kind of fuckery is going down with the Goblet.

It might just be the fact that they're in the same boat for once.

Regardless, the important thing is that Harry is being receptive to Ed’s admittedly minimal efforts to get along, for Sirius and Remus’ sakes.

Maybe by the end of the year, they’ll even be able to handle living together at Grimmauld Place, like Sirius and Remus had been hoping for.

After all, Ed was able to make friends in a single year, so he’s clearly capable of working miracles to some extent.

(Even if this miracle might be the most unlikely yet.)

* * * * *

The Saturday evening before the first task, George manages to sneak up on Ed as he’s walking down the corridor and grabs him by the arm. In turn, Ed almost crushes the bones of George’s hand on instinct.

“What the fuck? I could’ve hurt you!” he says. “Where the hell are we going?”

George pays him no mind, dragging him by the arm along the shadows before pulling him into an alcove behind a suit of armor.

“You need to see something,” George says. “Hurry up, Fred’s waiting.”

Ed follows George through a secret passageway and finds Fred waiting impatiently for them at the end.

“C’mon! Charlie told us to meet him ten minutes ago!”

_Charlie’s here?_

“Okay, I repeat, where the hell are we going?” Ed asks, a touch exasperated.

“You’ll see,” Fred replies cryptically. He’s slightly giddy about something though, which isn’t a great sign — Fred’s only ever this excited about something that’s guaranteed to wreak havoc.

George is quiet, his brother’s complete opposite in this moment and that’s not a good sign either.

Ed chooses to say silent for the rest of their trip, fumbling after Fred in the darkness, with George right on his heels. They’re walking through the edges of the forest, slowly making their way in deeper.

Fred stops abruptly. “We’re here,” he breathes.

“Where’s here?” Ed snaps irritably.

George just points.

And Ed gapes.

There’s really nothing else he can do in this situation.

“Are those _dragons_?”

* * * * *

He hasn’t stopped pacing ever since the twins dragged him back to the castle and taken him directly to the kitchens. 

“Are they fucking insane? Dragons? _Dragons_?”

Fred and George watch him move back and forth and don’t bother to encourage or discourage his worrying.

He’s not worrying though. 

He’s _not_ , he swears.

He’s just wondering what kind of sane person, when tasked with thinking of activities for teenagers to do for glory and honor, is to _pit them against an actual, fire-breathing, clawed dragon_.

“No sane person, no fucking sane person would do this. Insane person. An insane person planned this.” He stops abruptly and spins to face Fred and George. “Who else knows?”

“Dunno,” Fred shrugs.

“We have to tell everyone,” Ed starts pacing again. “Otherwise they’re just going to die, of age or not.”

“Why?” Fred makes a face. “You’re competing, don’t give them an advantage.”

George adds, “And also, there’s no way Ron hasn’t said anything to Harry. Even if they’re still fighting.”

“Aren’t they not anymore?” Fred says, head propped up on his arm. “Think Harry said something to him.”

“Oh, he actually talked to him? Nice.” Ed then scowls. “Wait, don’t distract me.”

“We’re not,” Fred protests. “You’re distracting yourself.”

“I’m telling everyone,” Ed says ,a finger thrust in Fred’s face, “Tournament be damned.”

George snorts. “Why did we expect any different?”

* * * * *

The next day, Ed goes out of his way to find the other champions.

“First task is dragons,” he says casually to them whenever he can get them alone.

Usually he’d be open about the upcoming wizard fuckery to anyone who’d listen, shouting from the top of his lungs that, “There are dragons! There are dragons in the forest!”, but he’s not completely socially inept.

He knows Fred and George trusted him with the information Charlie shared and Ed’s not about to take advantage of their help and potentially costing Charlie his job just for his own satisfaction.

Viktor looks surprised when Ed informs them, but not by the idea that they’ll be confronting dragons in a few days.

“Why are you telling me this?” 

Viktor’s eyes flicker over Ed’s face like he’s a difficult puzzle, one that’s never been solved before.

“Because,” Ed says, matter-of-fact, “how else are you going to get ready for the first task?”

Viktor stares at Ed for a few moments longer, before he smiles again.

“Thank you,” he nods, “I’ll be sure to prepare thoroughly.”

Fleur takes the news similarly, confusion spoiling her normally polite expression.

“Thank you,” she says, with a tip of her head. “The gesture is appreciated.”

It’s clear both Viktor and Fleur already know what’s coming, most likely through their respective Headmasters.

Ed figures Harry already knows, but he tells him anyway, as a peace offering of sorts.

The boy’s face is still riddled with suspicion when Ed corners him alone in the hallway, but it quickly morphs into blatant shock when Ed shares what he knows.

“Why would you tell me that?” Harry asks, dumbfounded.

Ed looks at him, because it should be obvious. “Because you’re fourteen? And like I said, I don’t want you to die over a stupid contest? And I don’t care what happens with these idiotic tasks, I literally just want to make sure everyone comes out of this alive.”

“Why are you so sure someone’s going to die or something?”

Ed cannot believe this. “Because there are actual, fire-breathing dragons waiting for us in this first task alone. If this is the first task, just what do you think is going to happen in the next two? Dumbledore said it himself, this tournament is supposed to be dangerous, like intentionally so. So I’m just doing my best to make sure you three don’t fuck up and die.”

“What makes you so sure that _you’ll_ make it out alive?” Harry asks. He’s genuinely curious, from the way he seems startled by his own question.

“I have my ways,” Ed says, almost smiling, but not quite. “But thanks for worrying about me.”

“I’m not–, I mean, I’m not _not_ worried, but—”

“Good luck, alright? Don’t die,” Ed interrupts. He doesn’t even need to think about what he says next. “And if you need help, just ask. Don’t be stupid and proud and get fucked over by it. Okay?”

Harry stares at him, his jaw slack.

Having said what he needed to say, Ed turns to leave when he doesn’t get a response. He takes three steps before he hears a stuttered, “You too!”

And that brings a smile to his face, even if Harry can’t see it.

Remus, that insufferable know-it-all, is right: they _can_ get along after all.

* * * * *

“Will you at least plan _something_? A spell? A back-up spell?”

“Nope,” Ed says, head down on the table.

Neville dishevels his hair and groans. “Aren’t you worried?”

“Nope,” Ed says again.

“Fullmetal surely has a plan in mind already,” Luna reassures Neville.

“Nope.”

“Can you like, say anything else?” Ginny sighs. “We’re getting increasingly worried we’re about to watch you become dragon food in two days.”

“Nope.” Ed turns his head to the side so he can look up at his friends.

They’re in the kitchen again, as there’s no better place for students from different Houses to spend time with a certain amount of privacy.

“You must have an idea,” Blaise says, “otherwise you’re taking your guaranteed death fairly well.”

“I won’t die,” Ed snorts. 

“Famous last words,” Blaise says.

“I won’t.” He eyes all of his friends, one by one. “Don’t worry about me, really. I’ll be fine, I just don’t have any plans to play by their rules.”

“That’s why we’re worried,” George says, “because we know you, and you saying that, in no way, makes us feel better about the half-arsed plan you’ve surely got brewing in your brain.”

“Don’t swear. And it’s not half-assed,” Ed corrects, “it’s full-assed.”

“What does that even mean?” Fred groans. 

“It means don’t worry about it,” Ed says again. “I mean it. I don’t die easy.”

His friends share an unamused look, which Ed ignores.

(None of them had been particularly thrilled to learn the details of Ed punching Death Eaters at the World Cup and had subsequently questioned his sanity.)

Every day since Saturday, the book club has been meeting to brainstorm solutions to Ed’s upcoming dragon problem.

“It’s only fair,” Ginny says. “Everyone else is getting help too.”

They offer him a variety of ideas to pull from and he’d been overwhelmed with the amount of time and care his friends had spent on his behalf.

But he doesn’t agree with this Tournament, even if he’s being forced to participate.

And he doesn’t want to plan, to prepare for these events, as if he’s not a victim of circumstance. He doesn’t want to earn points or earn favor in the eyes of Hogwarts, even if it means worrying those who care about him.

It’s driving his friends insane.

They just want to help him and he doesn’t want to be helped.

They think he’s about to be killed and is doing nothing to stop it, but that’s not quite true. Ed can think of several bad situations where he’s come out on top in spite of his lack of preparation.

He won’t die, because he can’t.

Dying here means disappearing forever — it means not only losing his friends here, but also losing his friends and family in Amestris, who’ll forget him, like he’s been erased from their memories.

That’s not an option.

His Hogwarts friends don’t understand that, though. 

Remus and Sirius don’t understand it either, based on the letters he’s been receiving from a panicked Sirius and the comments Remus has been making about being too young for grey hairs.

In the end, there’s not enough time for any of them to convince Ed to do something — anything — to get ready to face the dragon.

It’s November 24th already.

The first task is beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!
> 
> thank you always for taking the time to read, comment, leave kudos, bookmarks etc. !
> 
> random, but i don't know why i write out hagrid's way of speaking in the earlier chapters but didn't want to do the same for any of our visiting friends in this chapter lol i think it might just be because i'm terrible at accents irl so i can't figure it out phonetically either
> 
> if it isn't obvious, there will be dragons in the next chapter for sure :-)

**Author's Note:**

> as always, you can come find me on [tumblr](https://www.13tongues.tumblr.com)!


End file.
